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GOLDEN WINGED DAYS 



BY 



ANNE BUTLER THOMAS 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 
The Gorham Press 
1907 



Copyright 1907 by Anne Butler Thomas 



All Rights Reserved 



I LIBRARY of CONGRESS / 
Two Copies Received "■ 

JUN 24 « 30/ \ 

'Ccoyrisrtif Entry 
iClas&' (X XXc, No, 

f S(^ /7 3 

COPY B. I 

III '< I I I ■ l lWi l W , T iii - J 






77/^ Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



DEDICATION 



To the memory of 
Ovid Butler 

Beloved sire, though twenty years have passed 
Since thy fair counsel hath been given to men, 
Thine image still doth press upon my heart: 
For there hath been no influence in my Hfe, 
From earliest breath, that hath surpassed thine. 
Could'st thou but scan this page, what interest 
And kindly thought, perchance, thou mightest know; 
For reading into it thy spirit pure, 
My simple message would be magnified 
To something true and worthy of thy name. 

Oh, thou, who in exalted dreams for those 

Thou lovedst well, ne'er equalled was by man! 

Dost thou still mind the hour when at thy feet 

I knelt, for Jacob's blessing on rny head ? 

And cried aloud in agony of grief; 

But more bemoaned I (for thy relief 

Of sorrow's stress) mine own inconsequence. 

Well did I know how, after thy great loss, 

(That flame of youth which flashed across our sky 

And sped into eternity) although 

Thy children crowded near to comfort give, 

Thou desolate wast left without that one. 

And bent and sore bereft thou hadst but this: 

The reverence due thy virtue and thy years, 

From filial hearts; and daughter's blinding tears, 

With all abounding gift of love to thee from her — 

Gift consecrate: sweet frankinscence and myrrh. 



These verses, slight and mayhap shadowed o'er, 

I lowly offer them and lay them here. 

Midst plaudits which from far thou hast received. 

Oh, couldst thou speak to me (in memory 

Of deathless pact twixt Love and Gratitude) 

One single word of approbation kind. 

Content with life, and with a mind at rest, 

I would arise and consolation find. 

That thou with me (fulfilled thy request) 

Art in a measure satisfied, at last. 

A. B. T. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PART FIRST 

Book I. Science 

PAGjE 

Science Among the Greeks 13 

Modern Science the Spirit of the Age 16 

Science Sketches 21 

Origin of Species 21 

Evolution of Man 22 

Nature's Fiat 23 

Survival of the Fittest 23 

The Pleiades 24 

Microcosm 25 

Nature's Heart 26 

The Scientific Age 27 



*Book II — Crittcism 

Huxley, a Man of Culture 30 

Matthevs^ Arnold 37 

Emerson 37 

Philistinism 41 



6 Contents — Continued 

Browning 49 

John Fust 49 

Friends 56 

Robert Browning the Scholar 67 



Book III — Fiction 
Present Status of the Novel 81 

Book IV. Drama 

Every Man in His Humor 86 

Ancient and Modern Drama Compared 97 

Jones' Renaissance of the English Drama 104 

Book V . India — Old and ISfew 

Literature of India 112 

* Kipling's India 1 20 

PART SECOND 

Invocation 

Book I. Nature 
The River of Life 132 



Contents — Continued 7 

Book II. Fragments 

Group I 

Deliverance i35 

Divine Imminence I35 

Improvisatore 13^ 

Nature's Vacuum 137 

Dual Self 137 

Group II: 

Comforting Sea 13^ 

Closed Door 13^ 

Interpretation 140 

Waiting 140 

Non-resistance 140 

Group III: 

Translation 141 

My Lady Beautiful 142 

Poesy 142 

Refreshment 142 

Viva! 143 

Group IV: 

Golden Winged Days 143 

Wild Rose I44 

Acorns i45 

At the Auditorium 146 

Temperament Artistique 146 

Group V: 

Anniversary 147 

Vacation 148 

Homer Syndicate 149 

The Visitor I49 

Semper Fidelis 

Group VI: 

Things that are Behind 1 50 

Nature's Risibles 151 



8 Contents — Continued ' 

Small Life 151 

The Open Fire 152 

Group VII: 

Songs o' the Night 154 

The Gentle Hand 154 

Atmosphere 155 

Nocturne 155 

Cave of the Winds 156 

Group VIII: 

January Dawn . . 157 

The Bequest 157 

Mt. Shasta 158 

In Doing Deeds Commendable 158 

Group IX: 

Galerie d'Apollon 161 

The Catherine Wheel at Chartres 161 

The Refining Touch 162 

Love's Equivalent 163 

My Stradivarius 163 

Group X: 

Cherries 164 

Where Stand the Household Gods 164 

Allah is His Name 165 

Humilitas 166 

Group XI: 

Original MS 168 

Ulysses 168 

Pan 169 

Latin Lyrist 169 

The Sacrifice 170 

My Library 170 

Group XII: 

Benedictus 171 



Contents — Continued 9 

Ipsissima Verba 172 

Meditation Ignis Est 172 

Meditation 173 

The Note that Falleth Low 173 

Group XIII: 

Sister Arts 174 

Epistle to the Poets 175 

Her Little Serene Highness 175 

Cradle Song 176 

Puritan and Scot 176 

Group XIV: 

Living Stones I77 

The Anglo-Saxon 178 

Friendship 178 

Bride of Christ 179 

Palace Beautiful 179 

Group XV: 

Mirage 180 

Quiet Hour 181 

Creation 182 

The New Creation 182 

The Ordinance Supreme 183 

Book III. Immortality 

Testis 185 

Finale 185 

Magnum Opus 186 

Book IF. Love Songs 

Love's Essence 189 

Rhapsody 189 

Love's Passing 189 

Will o'the Wisp 191 



10 Contents — Continued 

Longing 192 

Daphne 193 

Mortal Love 194 

Spirit Love 194 

Appreciations 195 

Mizpah 196 

The Kiss Returned 197 

The Gift 197 

My Place 197 

My Part 198 

Language of Love ' 198 

Moment Psychological 199 

Paradiso 199 

Sonata Appassionata 200 

Violets 201 

Trilogy 202 



PART THIRD 
The Hunt. An Idyl of the Field 207 



PART FIRST 



Book I. — Science 
SCIENCE AMONG THE GREEKS 

If we understand by the expression 'science among the 
Greeks,' science in Greece, we are misled. For, though 
science may be said to have taken its rise in the teachings of 
Aristotle and a few other Grecians, it found no permanent 
home in Hellas. The migration of scientific thought took 
place quite early after it's birth. It is interesting to know 
that the Greeks, through their unparalleled imagination, 
were among the first of scientific discoverers; thus proving 
that poetry may be the precursor of science. But it is equal- 
ly puzzling to understand what there was in Grecian soil to 
deter the Greeks in their investigations. Whatever the 
cause may have been, it is certain that in Greece scientific 
study was brief. The beginnings, however, which were 
destined to attain brilliant results some years later among 
the Alexandrians, were originally suggested by the Athenians 
Says one writer: " It is to the foundations of the Museum at 
Alexandria, by the successors of Alexander, the Ptolemies, 
that the scientific system inaugurated by Aristotle owes its 
ancient development. ... It was in fact the first 
definitely organized institution for the promotion of knowl- 
edge. " By turning the attention to Alexandria, therefore, 
it is comparatively an easy matter to learn not only the facts 
possessed by the Greeks, but the methods of their procedure 
in study, and the extent of their scientific experimentation. 

As to a few of the principles acquired by the ancients, 
through the Aristotelian system. From a direct measure- 
ment of a meridian arc, the size of the earth was estimated; 
the method of obtaining specific gravity was discovered; also 

13 



14 Golden Winged Days 

the relation of a volume of a sphere to that of its circum- 
scribing cylinder; and particularly the true theory of the 
lever. Euclid's great work was perfected by further dis- 
coveries: the procession of the equinoxes; the first inequal- 
ity and equation of the moon. Ptolemy discovered the sec- 
ond inequality of the moon. He argued in favor of plane- 
tary motion, and embodied in his works many facts in 
geography and optics. No branch of science attained high- 
er results, through the school of Alexandria, than that of 
medicine. Here for the first time, dissection was permitted; 
and here for the first time, men became careful anatomists, 
by close study of the structure and physiology of the human 
body. Says a medical authority: " The discoveries of the 
Alexandrian scholars were afterward extended by the labors 
of Galen, the celebrated physician of Pergamus : and through 
the learned Jewish and Nestorian physicians, the medical 
knowledge of the Greeks was transmitted to their successors 
the Arabian scientists." Special reference is here made to 
the facts acquired by the ancients in the study of medicine 
since this is almost the only branch of science which remain- 
ed in active existence (with continuity unbroken) throughout 
the ages. The study of science in the Alexandrian school 
lasted four or five centuries; but with the single exception of 
medical science, it fell into general decline, and was succeed- 
ed by the study of metaphysics, as the only subject worthy 
of human thought. Small mystery that our own century — 
the scientific period — should have been preceded by what 
are legitimately called the dark ages. 

The Grecian methods of procedure in study were char- 
acteristic. Their intellectual manner of approach to a sub- 
ject was peculiarly their own. Says a certain writer : " The 
intellectual productions of the Greeks were works of the 
imagination. The exercise of the reasoning faculty was 



Golden Winged Days 15 

mainly confined to ideal concepts." With Aristotle came 
a readjustment of the true locus of the imagination: she 
was given her place — a high one — allowed to precede and 
lead science; but she was not credited with being an infalli- 
ble guide, and she was frequently made to withdraw for 
Science to pass. But even Aristotle, great as he was in his 
methods of investigation, largely failed. His failure was 
due to his lack of material, and to his attempts to generalize 
on slender foundation. Herein is the good which came out 
of his labor: Aristotle's successors followed his methods in 
their vigorous collection of facts; and possessing larger ma- 
terial, with increased power of generalization (resulting from 
continued tentative effort) they reached, more than he, ac- 
curate and valuable conclusions. 

The scientific experimentation of the Greeks was in 
most directions, wholly dissimilar to ours; but as careful 
dissectors of the human body they were like moderns. In 
lieu of the cadaver they frequently made use of apes, in their 
cross-section examinations. They gave fairly close study to 
nature, both animate and inanimate; having special advan- 
tages for such pursuits in the great Alexandrian museum. 
The extent of their scientific observations must have been 
considerable, when it is taken into account that within the 
walls of this same museum were not only menageries and 
botanical gardens, but a great variety of scientific instru- 
ments and a magnificent library. If proof were needed, 
works are extant upon every scientific subject from zoology 
and botany all the way to agriculture, geography and chem- 
istry, showing the scope of their investigations. 

The Grecians, though they left some false conclusions 
in the theoretical domain of science, left many useful discov- 
eries in the perceptive domain. Says Huxley: " The foun- 
dations of mathematics were so well laid by the Greeks that 



l6 Golden Winged Days 

our children learn their geometry from a book written for 
the schools of Alexandria, two thousand years ago. Modern 
astronomy is the natural continuation and development of 
the work of Hipparchus and Ptolemy; modern physics of 
that of Democritus and Archimedes. It was long before 
biological science outgrew the knowledge bequeathed to us 
by Aristotle, by Theophrastus and by Galen." But this is 
not all. Says Morris: " The thinkers of the ancient world 
have done more than make preliminary scientific discoveries. 
They have rationally interpreted nature, and have swept 
away much of the rubbish of old thoughts; and have left a 
clear field for the edifice of modern science. " 



MODERN SCIENCE THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE 

The study of science, which prevailed to a surprising 
degree among the ancients, gradually ceased in all branches 
except medicine, until during the Dark Age it had almost no 
place in the university curriculum. Aristotle's theory of evo- 
lution and his conception of cellular origins, marvellous as 
they seem in the light of modern science, yet inspired no man- 
ner of investigation : his original ideas were, for centuries, re- 
garded as purely philosophical speculations. The results of 
modern investigation have, however, so far transcended any- 
thing ever conceived of in the past that no recognition seems 
possible of a previous scientific age. So pronounced is the 
scientific spirit today that the interest in science is not regard- 
ed an awakening so much as it is considered a birth. 

The scientific revival, broad-spread as it is now, was 
nevertheless of slow growth. From its inception modern 
scientific thought was looked upon with suspicion; and its 
promulgators viewed with combined fear and derision. 



Golden Winged Days 17 

Science and classic learning were at war. Conservative 
institutions, showing intense hostility to science, cultivated 
only the classic languages. Science retaliated by deriding 
the classics as decadent. The breach influenced both to 
their detriment: the exclusive study of the classics was 
found to be narrowing, the exclusive study of science ac- 
knowledged to be materialistic, in its effects. The best 
thought of the time seemed to advocate compromise. The 
breach between science and theology was instant and ever 
increasing. Science sought no favor; theology extended 
none. The war in certain quarters still continues; but the 
mutual dependence of science and religion is coming to be 
more and more recognized. 

The pioneers of modern science were men of singular 
simplicity of character, and tenacity of purpose. Their 
teachings are dissimilar to the opinions enunciated by many 
of their followers; while they themselves are not responsible 
for assertions often attributed to them. Notably is this ob- 
servation applicable to theories held by Darwin and by Wal- 
lace. They are the discoverers; and to them is accredited 
the honor of being numbered among the world's original 
investigators. 

Aside from the vast researches made by these scien- 
tists, their prime discovery was the unity of nature. This 
great theory is still in dispute. But it has been accepted so 
widely by practical scientists that it deserves a respectful 
hearing. It is a thought which first dawned upon the minds 
of Darwin and a few others, was utilized by them in their 
own investigations, and, proving valuable as a working 
hypothesis, was given by them to their fellow-workers, for 
what it was worth. From being received as an acting prin- 
ciple to being accepted as a fundamental truth was a step 
which the theory took within a few months. Darwin says 



i8 Golden Winged Days 

that between the first and last editions of the Origin of 
Species it rose quickly from a ridiculed conception of natural 
processes into a widely credited working basis, by hundreds 
of naturalists. They did not accept it; but they used it as a 
line along which to pursue their private studies. That was 
all that was necessary, and all that the discoverer wished. 
He let the principle speak for itself; and smiled at their 
alacrity in following the path he had pointed out. Then 
came conviction, and a strong desire on the part of those who 
had availed themselves of this explanation, to bring others to 
realize its value. The law of unity, as illustrated by Darwin, 
presents a perfect exemplification of the evulution of man. 
The discoverers did not claim development to be a universal 
principle. But they indicated the way by which we may 
find if it is true in specific instances, and then may follow 
inductive reasoning for further light. The principle of unity 
which Darwin and Wallace taught concerning the evolution 
of man, applies in a larger and grander sense to the whole 
organized world. 

One of the noblest services science has rendered recent 
times is to explain its own method of research. This is 
known as the New, Modern, or Scientific Method. For an 
understanding of the New Method we go back to the dis- 
coverers. As to the way in which he reached his conclusions, 
Darwin says: " After I returned to England (from his voy- 
age as naturalist on the Beagle) it appeared to me that, by 
following the example of Lyell in geology and noting all the 
facts which bore in anyway on the variation of animals and 
plants under domestication, some light might be thrown on 
the subject. My first note-book was opened July 1837. I 
worked on true Baconian principles and, without any theory, 
collected facts. After five years work I allowed myself to 
speculate on the subject. " Huxley calls the Modern Method 



Golden Winged Days 19 

the method of nature. He says: " The methods of the 
physical and natural sciences are the methods of investiga- 
tion. They begin with observation and experiments, ad- 
vance to generalizations (called hypotheses or theories) and 
finally proceed to overthrow^ or establish the generalizations, 
by deducing from them necessary consequences and rigor- 
ously testing them. This method involves inductive as well 
as deductive logic; and herein lies its peculiarity. It is the 
method nature employs. Furthermore it is not merely the 
method of nature. It does not stop with observation and ex- 
periment. It only begins there. Objects should generate 
orderly ideas J' The Scientific Method maybe said, therefore, 
to proceed along this line: ist. Accumulation of facts. 
2nd. Classification of Facts. 3rd. Reasoning. The last is 
the most complex and difficult. Morris says: *' It is the 
laws and principles which bind together the vast array of na- 
ture's materials. It is the last step and one necessary to 
complete the work and to build a true counterpart of the uni- 
verse in the human mind." 

The New Method has been so prolific of results that its 
advance has been one of conquest. It is now universally 
adopted and is the only accredited means of inquiry in an- 
thropology, in comparative philology, in geology, and in an- 
cient and sacred literature. The Modern Method has re- 
volutionized the study of anthropology. For example, man's 
racial place was determined, formerly, by his language and 
location. The Scientific Method decides his race definitely 
from cranial measurements and angles, stature, hair and, 
skin. The New Method is invaluable in the study of com- 
parative philology: as instanced in the Indo-European 
languages, which all have the same word for father and 
mother; showing that the family relation existed before the 
migration of the early tribes from their first home. The cen- 



20 Golden Winged Days 

tral fact which the Modern Method has revealed in geology 
is that there is a continuity in the earth's crust formation; 
notwithstanding the abrupt changes in the various strata. 
Of equal importance, and to many of more interest, is the 
effect which the Scientific Method has had upon the study of 
ancient and sacred literatures. But the method so valuable 
in all objective studies (which may be actually demonstrated 
by experimentation) is not always infallible when applied to 
manuscripts; because the originals are frequently lost, and 
the copies which we have are supplied from memory, or 
taken inaccurately from unreliable sources. This being so, 
the results from textual criticism cannot be depended upon as 
invariably true. There are no mistakes in nature, and a 
fact in nature once established is forever an hypothesis upon 
which we may form a conclusion. But an ancient manu- 
script is one thing: an uncertain quantity. And a rock is 
quite another: an eternal basis. However the New Method 
is so far the best that it would be strange if it were not used 
extensively in belles-lettres just as it is in every other branch 
of learning. In ancient and sacred literatures the Modern 
Method has already been most far-reaching in its results. 
And with a proper appreciation and realization of its limita- 
tions, it will yet reveal wonders. Wolf thought Homer was 
not a person; but that the word was the name for a collection 
of songs. The Scientific Method led Schliemann to exca- 
vate; and out of his excavations history has been construct- 
ed which duplicates the setting of the Greek epics. The 
New Method applied to the study of the Sacred Scriptures is. 
called Higher Criticism. It is at work as present; and its 
results, though incomplete, are somewhat modifying long 
accepted ideas 

The rise of modern science is like the building of a tem- 
ple. First, the plan: Darwin and others have suggested the 



Golden Winged Days 21 

plan to be the Unity of Nature. Second, the accumulation 
of stones or building material: specialists have blazed facts 
from every quarry. Third, the process of building: this 
has been and is being done by other v^^orkers w^ho are arrang- 
ing these vast piles of facts and laying them in their proper 
places in the structure. Fourth, and last are the finishers 
and furnishers: these noble artificers v^ill not come in our 
time; they may never come. For so grand is the plan and 
so stupendous the work that man may never do more in his 
little day than keep on building — forever, building; but 
meanwhile rejoicing in his work, as he feels assured that 
every stone in wisdom hath been laid, and with God's plan 
in harmony. 



SCIENCE SKETCHES 
Origin of Species 

I 

Bare feet, bare hands upon the floor, I chanced to place. 
Faint, trembling memories stirred — a recognition swift 
As thought, of days primordial: when on tropic vine 
Ancestral creatures climbed, and chattered as they ran! 

II 

In me their distant kin, a comprehension rose 
Of nature's unity: and I and they — 
The children of the forest, wild and free — 
Are now, and shall remain, forever one. 



22 Golden Winged Days 

Evolution of Man 

I 

The origin and fate of men 
Is now by science loud proclaimed. 
(Alas, the weariness of life 
Doth compass me on every hand.) 

II 

If men from orders low have ris*n, 
Then rudiment'ry to their flesh 
Doth cling the nature of their sires. 
(One saith the human heart is kind.) 

Ill 

It may be that the flame doth burn 
Which one day Hghted from above, 
Presaged their final birth as men — 
Partakers in divinity. 

IV 

But aeons e'en must roll around 
E'er that eliminate shall be 
Which now doth drag them to the dust- 
Refuting origin divine. 



For evolution needs no proof 
Than that found in humanity: 
Primeval instinct, cruel, strong; 
And culture, pure, ennobling. 



Golden Winged Days 23 

VI 

Oh, that I had through endless years 
Of man's slow and transitional state, 
Remained non-existent still — 
Unborn till fullness of the times. 



VII 

Oh, life! oh, weariness of life! 
When will the dross of earth decay ? 
When will maturity be here ? 
Will Man (God's image) e'er appear ? 



Nature's Fiat 

Great Nature doth enforce a single law. 
This one sublime event doth shake the earth: 

The human, slender, slight and small; 
The creature moving in her stall; 
The birds (that for a moment leave 
Their blue with pointed winging cleave) 
Obey; and all to mandate come. 
Still, still they lie. They all succumb. 



Survival of the Fittest 

I 

The vast majority of life attempts 
Abortive are. E'en from a million seeds 
Not more than half to full fruition come. 



24 Golden Winged Days 

And many children — may God pity them — 
Flit out of life, before they ope their eyes. 

II 

Oh, why this prodigality of forms 

That go to waste ? But one solution stands 

That life upon the earth may never fail; 

And unit ever to the greatest good 

Of greatest number, must be sacrificed. 



The Pleiades 

I 

Our minds are most inadequate 
Determining whence cometh man: 
It is not reasonable to think 
From earth he hath evolved himself. 

II 

Impossible 'tis to believe 
He doth trace back his ancestry 
(Devonian, Silurian age) 
To low and brutal origins. 

Ill 

Imagination stimulant 
Doth need, to drive to positive 
Conclusion, that he perfect was 
Made by his Maker from the first. 

IV 

And so at sea, to contemplate, 
We're left, midst doubt and mystery; 



Golden Winged Days 25 

We have no compass but the stars, 
Forever fixed in sky of God. 



Microcosm 

I 

The Universal Rhythm 

The Wonder vast, which Harvey understood, 
(That gives a dignity to human frame) 
We call **the circulation of the blood." 

The heart, like as a fount, doth hold and send 

Belated river roseate, till thence 

It flow^eth to its sure and destined end. 

It is not strange that in the olden times 
The very source of life should be esteemed 
To so reside in fluid coursing veins. 

Oh, bath of full and rich and glorious glow! 
Thou dost the essence of existence prove: 
All life should center in thine overflow. 

Dynamic Fusion in our every vein, 

That movest up and down and all around. 

And so returnest to thy place again, 

Thou circlest evermore in rhythmic run 
And keepest on thy steady, measured course 
Without our aid, from birth till life is done. 



26 Golden Winged Days 

II 

The Primal Elements 

The substance of the stars is in our frame. 
And we are one with meteoric rock; 
And one are we with vast volcanic flame. 

How do the primal elements of earth, 
Found in the fire and snow and in the sod, 
Engrapple me with ever tight'ning girth. 

Of fascination's power what is the source ? 
They draw me as the magnet doth the steel: 
Perchance I recognize a kindred force. 

In passive state, or ever constant strife, 

At rest, or acting now molecular. 

Is matter, that doth constitute my life. 

Those very substances that spend themselves 
And change from gases into solid form 
Are re-adjustment of my own materials! 

I am the rock. I am the fire and flood. 
Till universe dissolves in nothingness, 
The sea, the sky the earth flow in my blood! 

Nature's Heart 

Hath Nature then no charm for us 
Save likeness to humanity ? 



Golden Winged Days 27 

Must she forever be "in tears/' 
Or smile in maiden vanity ? 
God wot, she is herself alone! 
Apart she stands in radiance; 
In stentor and in undertone 
She hath a deep significance. 

O mighty power of universe 
That throbbest hard with quickened pace; 
Thou surgest up and down the earth, 
Thou reachest out to boundless space! 

Life! Life! It marks thee everywhere — 
Life limitless in strength and scope; 
Life full, abundant, ent'ring where 
The human may not go, or hope. 

O fill me with thine overflow; 

Pulse through my viens, great Nature's heart. 
And send me sweeping down the range 

Of century — an atom's part! 



The Scientific Age 

'Tis not the age of Poetry, " 
Saith one who would malign the time. 
And credit it with neither heart nor voice; 
But give it note of dominance 
Pertaining to the evidence 
Of sense, and instinct in the race 
For profit and for loss. 



28 Golden Winged Days 

But, though the times must truly change, 

And fair Romance doth often hide her face, 

Before the mid-day mercenary sun. 

And turn away when Science draweth near. 

She is not dead, nor even doth she sleep. 

Ah, just so long as fields are green, 

And skies are blue, and human hearts know love, 

In nature and in life she shall appear. 

She sweetly walks abroad at eventide. 
Or when the dawn of morning soft 
Doth brighten land and sky, Romance 
With trailing skirts well dipped in dew. 
Doth trip it lightly o'er the hills. 
And whereso e'er Love finds his resting place, 
In cranny of the mountain top, or lowest deep, 
There Romance sits — her silent watch to keep. 

She treadeth now her lonely way 
Along the quiet country paths. 
Anon, she climbeth city steeps 
And gazeth from some lofty tower 
Out over restless, troubled world; 
And granteth men her benediction mild. 

Dear Children of the Dust," she saith, 
" I love you so that I shall ne'er withdraw, 
Nor leave you desolate on earth, 
Save when your hearts are given o'er 
To that which profiteth you not. 
If, by the slightest chance, you turn aside 
From base material gain, 



Golden Winged Days 29 

Or calculation cold of Truth, to find 

A longing in your breasts for better things 

(Imperishable treasures long forsworn) 

Ah, gently then I wrap you 'neath my wings. 

And bearing you away to heavenly heights, 

Remove you far from dingy foot-paths here: 

That ye may yet that "something more" attain. 

And so doth Romance smile and go her way. 

Till worn humanity waits to receive 

The blessing she hath still in store for us. 

'Tis not the Age. Tis not the busy brain 

That shutteth out her ministrations sweet; 

'Tis but the willfulness and stubborn sense 

And self-sufficiency of beings small, 

Who fain would crowd her from her rightful place, 

And say she liveth not. To the Elect 

Romance doth live: nor will she ever die. 



Book II — Criticism 

HUXLEY, A MAN OF CULTURE 

An attempt to define culture is like analyzing a rose to 
discover the essential elements which, combined, constitute 
its fragrance; botanical facts as to its floral structure are 
easily learned; but why certain chemical combinations pro- 
duce a distinctive perfume, is a logic of nature which escapes 
reasoning. Culture is an intangible something more readily 
discerned than described. Perhaps the difficulty of defining 
the word would partially disappear if due recognition were 
given to the formative influences which are spiritual as well 
as to those which are intellectual. May it not be called the 
resultant of the passion for perfection ? Or in other words, 
does not culture remain unculture unless there be back of it 
an intuition which perceives wholeness in the abstract, and a 
force which prompts a development into an image of the 
vision ? To the scientific mind this appears a fantastic con- 
ception of culture. To such an one the word is something 
which only the New Method may define: 

" A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more." 

Even Matthew Arnold, the apostle of culture, seems to halt 
in his definition of the word. He says : '' Culture is to know 
the best that has been thought and said in the world." 
Rather, one would think, it is to know and apply the best 
thought: there is no culture in knowledge per se. Further, 
in contradistinction to the growth of certain parts, it is an 
all-round development. 

30 



Golden Winged Days 31 

There is a degree of delicacy in the questioning the cul- 
ture of a man distinguished as a scientific authority both from 
his voluminous writings and from his wide experimentations. 
In the present instance such estimate — if pemissible at all — 
should rest not so much upon Huxley's attainments as upon 
his writings, his personality and the nature of his work. 
Huxley's lack, if deficiency he had, was not in attainment 
Even a passing reference to the weight and extent of his la- 
bors is sufficient to command respect. In his early youth he 
deliberately chose the rugged path of science. Alluding to 
that time he says: " If I may speak of the objects which I 
have had more or less definitely in view since I began the 
ascent of my hillock, they are briefly these: to promote the 
increase of natural knowledge and to forward the application 
of scientific methods to all problems of life, to the best of my 
ability. " Huxley possessed a thorough knowledge of many 
sciences. He was qualified in surgery; and when a very 
young man was for four years assistant surgeon on board 
H. M. S. Rattlesnake. Later he became professor of 
natural history in the Royal School of Mines; and in 1855 
FuUerian professor at the Royal Institution. For three 
years he was lord rector of Aberdeen University. He was 
Rede lecturer at Cambridge; and in 1883 was made presi- 
dent of the Royal Society. The fact that Huxley was 
called to fill so many high positions is evidence that his 
intellect and genius were readily recognized. In each 
instance, save one, such recognition was in no way sur- 
prising: he was simply taking the place for which by 
nature he was intended. It was therefore a marked 
compliment to him as a man of culture (without reference 
to his qualifications at a scientist) when he was instaled 
Lord Rector of Aberdeen University; and for that 
reason the more deeply he appreciated the distinc- 



32 Golden Winged Days 

tion. In his Inaugural Address he says: " It is an 
honor of which I could not have dreamed; and especially 
surprising as the five and twenty years which have passed 
over my head since I reached intellectual manhood have been 
largely spent in the advocacy of doctrines which have not 
yet found favor in the eyes of Academic respectability. . 
I was as much astonished as Hal o' the Wynd when proffered 
knighthood. " 

Huxley's writings fall under three heads: technical, 
popular and controversial. His greatest books were pub- 
lished from 1859-93, and cover a vast survey of science in all 
of its departments: anatomy, physiology, biology, etc. 
These score and more volumes at once took rank as author- 
itative works. Written as they were by a scientist for scien- 
tists they are out of the pale of literary criticism. During 
these years he also wrote for the unscientific reader; though 
his lighter writings were less numerous. The later include 
his Lay Sermons, Critiques and Addresses, and Science and 
Culture. These volumes are largely compilations, being for 
the most part collections from his own lectures and maga- 
zine articles. In their publication Huxley was prompted by 
a supreme desire to popularize science. His appeal in these 
pages to the unscientific reader is as successful as it doubt- 
less was when made in person to the unscientific hearer. 
The message indeed is readily comprehensible. It is con- 
veyed, however, in language, which, considered as literature, 
leaves much to be desired. As is usual with scientists, Hux- 
ley minimizes the importance of literary training. The best 
answer to his disregard for literature as an art is found in his 
own style; the words hang together, but they do not evince 
having been collated by a cultured mind. Huxley's con- 
troversial writings may not be classified by volume or even • 
by page. They are apparent rather in the large body of his 



Golden Winged Days 33 

work written at a given period, and were due to a move- 
ment of which he formed a very conspicuous part. The 
pioneer day for the popularizing of science dawned about 
the year 1870. Among the first positive efforts to that end 
was the publication of Huxley's Lay Sermons. Darwin 
though the prime mover, was the wisest of all the belliger- 
ents. He alone seems to have kept entirely out of the field. 
Indeed, from his letters, it is evident that his intention in that 
respect was his own secret. Like the master diplomat that 
he was, his indefatigable purpose was first to convince his 
friends of the credibility of his theories, before he ventured 
to make his views known to the world. Nor was his wis- 
dom wanting in his choice of advocates. His earliest confi- 
dants were (in England) Sir Charles Lyell, and (in America) 
Professor Asa Gray; both of whom promptly refused to ac- 
cept his theories. But such was the sweet reasonableness of 
Darwin that he was in no wise dismayed; and he commenced 
a process of education, which ended not only in his friends' 
acceptance of his teaching, but (as he had designed) in their 
ardent support of his theories. Thenceforth was laid upon 
them the burden of proselyting other scientists; and to the 
latter in turn, came the novel duty of sowing scientific thought 
among the people. Like all reforming periods this was one 
of hand to hand fight; and one which apparently required a 
surrender of all ambitions save that of the triumph of the 
cause. It is certain that the van-guard could not have mov- 
ed forward without a great amount of preliminary skirmish- 
ing and sharp shooting by scientific scouts; and to such 
service more than one man of genius willingly gave up his 
place as leader and his hope of posthumous honor. Not- 
able among those who joined in the movement to popularize 
science was Thomas Henry Huxley. Writing, when an old 
man of his sacrifice of personal hopes, Huxley says: '* I 



34 Golden Winged Days 

have subordinated any reasonable or unreasonable ambition 
for scientific fame, which I may have permitted myself to en- 
tertain, to other ends : to the endless series of battles and skir- 
mishes over evolution, to the popularization of science, and 
to the development and organization of scientific education. 
In striving for the attainment of these objects I have been 
but one among many; and I shall be content to be remember- 
ed, or even not remembered, as such. But I could not count 
anything a mark of success, if I could not hope that I have 
somewhat helped that movement of opinion which has been 
called the New Reformation. " As was inevitable most of 
the scientific writing of this period was controversial. With 
the exception of Darwin — who was like a star apart — scien- 
tists were all on one side or the other. It was the fashion 
among the leaders to adopt in their disquisitions a certain 
supercilious attitude toward their opponents which marred 
their writings, as literature. There was even a deeper in- 
fringement upon the best style: it seemeda sort of moral an- 
tagonism. This peculiarity of diction was nowhere more 
evident than in the writings of Huxley. It should be remem- 
bered that he lived in vexatious times and was surrounded 
by petty irritations. He said of his conceptions of truth, 
that things flashed upon him; and, it may be, he regarded 
each flash as men do a revelation. Moreover he believed 
large issues depended upon the stand scientific men were 
taking; and courageously and conscientiously he sought to 
do his part in defending it. But the fact remains that there 
are many passages in Huxley's works which strike one 
unfavorably and rather painfully. Especially is this true of 
his essays published in 1882; the language here used is not 
fhat of a man of culture. 

Huxley's personality is striking and individual, and 
enters largely into an estimate of him as a cultured man. 



Golden Winged Days 35 

His intelligence was keen, his temperament nervous, his char- 
acter at once forceful and purposeful. To the intense nature 
of Huxley, St. Paul's doctrine is applicable: **This one thing 
I do." He could no other. Concentration upon a given 
point, to the exclusion of all else, being Huxley's prime char- 
acteristic, it w^as inevitable he should run into a groove. He 
possessed a w^ide knovirledge of science. With this he was 
satisfied; occasionally to the extent of a seeming indifference 
to spiritual ethics and literary studies. But the bigotry in 
others, of which he so often complained, was not altogether 
foreign to his own nature. This want of mental hospitality 
was partly responsible for his inability to understand a cul- 
ture based upon character. And even as his scientific mind 
could not entertain the full thought of culture, neither for 
that reason was its personal realization possible to him. 

The narrowing effect of specialization precludes culture 
in its broadest sense. Huxley, in addition to being a scien- 
tific scholar, was a great specialist in biology. Without 
specialists knowledge would cease. But more is the pity, 
they are all too frequently martyrs to human enlightenment. 
They close upon themselves the door of a broad, all-embrac- 
ing culture; and the very law which regulates the spread of 
knowledge often takes no account of the individual.The 
consensus of opinion (both of specialists themselves and of 
observers generally) seems to be that culture is non-existent 
with specialization. Darwin's mental application to experi- 
mental science and the consequent decay of his poetic taste 
is a well known instance. Darwin's acknowledged experi- 
ence holds good more or less of all scientists. Mental con- 
centration upon any one theme of whatever nature, atrophies 
the ethical perception. Huxley felt this himself. Writing 
in defense of his position he says: "How often have we been 
told that the study of physical science is incompetent to con- 



36 Golden Winged Days 

fer culture; that it touches none of the higher problems of 
life; and what is worse than a continual devotion to scientific 
studies tends to generate a narrow beUef in the applicability 
of scientific methods to the search after truth of all 
kinds ? How frequently one has reason to observe that 
no reply to a troublesome argument tells so well as calling 
its author a mere scientific specialist ? Influenced by 
university traditions, the great majority of educated 
Englishmen hold that the man who has learned Latin 
and Greek, however little, is educated, while he who is 
versed in other branches of knowledge, however deeply, 
is a more or less respectable specialist — not admissible 
into the cultured class." A statement which has in 
it a touch of bitterness; but which, when sifted of its exagger- 
ation, pretty nearly states the argument as it stands, and re- 
mains unanswered. He concludes: *' I hold strongly to the 
conviction that for purposes of attaining real culture, an ex- 
tensively scientific training is at least as effectual as an exten- 
sively literary education. And I find myself wholly unable 
to admit that either nations or individuals will really advance 
if their common outfit draws nothing from the stores of phy- 
sical science. " This latter statement is an instance of Hux- 
ley's too frequent method of reasoning. His opponents do 
not argue for the total exclusion of science; but they oppose 
its claim upon the absorption of all the mental faculties. 
Their demand for purposes of real culture is simply a pro- 
portionate development. 

Huxley did not rightly divine the meaning of the word 
culture. His conception had in it no thought of a spiritual 
element; nor could he understand it in its broadest intellect- 
ual aspect. His writings are of inestimable value as works of 
science. Regarded as literature they are wanting in charm 
of expression and felicity of style. Huxley's vigorous per- 



Golden Winged Days 37 

sonality remained forever natural, without the graces or 
adornments which culture alone may bring. His work also 
(ever all-engrossing to him) was in itself a slight barrier to 
his own enlargement of soul. Huxley will always remain a 
great specialist in biology. But from his writings, his per- 
sonality and the nature of his vocation the evidence of his 
development along all lines is not sufficient to warrant his 
being regarded a perfect type of the man of culture. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 

Estimate of Emerson 

Literary criticism is a modern art. Says Ferris Greens- 
let: **In both ancient and medieval times actual critics were 
few. In the ancient period there was nought but the glory 
that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome. Even in 
the Middle Age what critical writing there was, was cosmo- 
politan. But from the Renaissance onward the critics were 
legion." Owing to false conceptions of the function of 
criticism, though it became a universal craft, it did not devel- 
op rapidly as an art. Past and present ideas of its province 
are widely different. The past conception of criticism is nar- 
row and unworthy. To criticise, formerly, meant unequiv- 
ocally to condemn: to view with justice — void of sympathy. 
Even so late as 18 18, Blackwood, by its inhumanity, rendered 
speechless one of England's greatest poets. In Jeffrey's 
attack upon Keats, criticism reached the culmination of its 
merciless censure. The death of the poet brought criticism 
to a halt: critics began to realize the cruelty of their own 



38 Golden Winged Days 

weapon, and hesitated to give it even legitimate use. The 
present conception of criticism is broad and noble. To 
criticise, today, means to approve as well as to censure: to 
view with justice and love. This changed attitude, or altered 
spirit of criticism is evinced in the words of one of our best 
modern critics. Says Saintsbury: *' Criticism is the en- 
deavor to find, to know, to recommend, to love not only the 
best but all the good that has been known and thought and 
written in the world." Authorities in literary criticism are 
therefore few: since the divine office of critic finds its priest- 
hood in men loving as truthful, and truthful as loving. The 
very rarity of the world's great critics makes the study of 
their works imperative: an ultimatum from them is our only 
criterion of perfect taste. 

As a master of the art of literary criticism no writer has 
appeared in England, up to the present time, who has quite 
equalled Matthew Arnold. A poet and an essayist, he is 
eminently qualified to speak with authority upon his own 
specialty: literature. He has written three volumes of 
poems and eight works of critical essays. As a poet he is 
thoughtful and cultured; but to such distinction has he risen 
as a critic that he is called the " Saint Beauve of English 
letters." In 1883, after he had been for ten years Professor 
of Poetry at Oxford, he was granted a pension of two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds. He then came to America and de- 
livered a course of lectures. He was well informed concern- 
ing certain phases of American life; and he chose themes 
which he knew would be of interest to his public. His lec- 
ture upon Emerson was one of the best which he gave while 
in this country. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American by birth and 
wholly an American in sympathy, was yet scarcely a typical 
American. Rather he was a product of New England, and 



Golden Winged Days 39 

of a New England no longer Puritan. In early colonial days 
the stern belief of the Puritans gave New England an unique 
civilization. The prevalence of their rigid doctrines was 
followed by a religious faith largely intellectual; and this in 
turn was succeeded by an influence half rational and half 
mystical. Transcendentalism, in certain localities, seemed 
to sweep aside even the vestiges of Unitarianism. In its rap- 
id movement it was like a small cyclone whirling in a limit- 
ed circle; and the new cult drew Emerson, with many other 
thoughtful men, into its vortex. The gentle philosophical 
preacher retired from the ministry, and sought truth 
through mysticism. After quitting the Unitarian pulpit Em- 
erson entered the lecture field. Later he edited a journal 
called the Dial; and writing a number of poems and essays, 
he chose, thenceforth, literature as his profession. 

Arnold says nothing of Emerson which his American 
friends may not willingly hear. The critic's conclusions are 
the resultant of a poet's testing a poet by poetic laws, of an 
essayist judging an essayist by the cannons of literary criti- 
cism. More than this they are a recognition, one cultured 
man of another. Arnold gratefully acknowledges the in- 
fluence which Emerson had exerted upon himself. He first 
seeks to discover to what that influence was due: if after the 
lapse of forty years Emerson is as great a writer as Oxford 
students once believed him to be. The task was a brave one, 
for he was addressing Emerson's countrymen in Emerson's 
home. Arnold's delicacy in the treatment of his theme is 
witnessed by his inclusive remarks concerning Goethe, 
Carlyle and Emerson as men of comparable power; and by 
the skillful indictment of Carlyle with which he precedes his 
estimate of Emerson. 

Arnold's selections from Emerson's poetry are brief but 
convincing; and the critic says they are the best in the poet's 



40 Golden Winged Days 

works Emerson is not Plato, as Arnold truly says; but the 
comparison is invidious. The poet's vagueness is, hovs^ever, 
a just cause for complaint; and it is traceable, as are most of 
his literary faults, to the mystical cast of his thought. Upon 
Emerson's prose style Arnold is equally severe, and quotes as 
oracular Emerson's modest lament: " Each sentence I write 
is an infinitely repellent particle. " The critic further affirms 
that Emerson's style is not that of a man of letters. He says : 
The style of a great writer resides in the whole tissue of his 
work, and of his work regarded as a composition for literary 
purposes. Emerson's style has not the requisite wholeness 
of tissue." Giving Emerson place neither as a great poet 
nor as a g;reat writer, Arnold yet assigns him a certain posi- 
tion as the propounder of a philosophy, ** though he cannot 
be called a great philosophical writer." And he somewhat 
detracts from even this slight praise by adding: " Emerson 
cannot build. His arrangement of philosophical ideas has 
no progress in it, no evolution; he does not construct a phil- 
osophy. " Unfortunately Arnold is able to fortify his posi- 
tion by numerous quotations from the Dial; in which pub- 
lication is found Emerson's most ineffective writing. 

Having *' cleared the way," as he says, Arnold concludes 
his lecture by stating just what manner of a man, in his opin- 
ion, Emerson is: '' We have not in Emerson a great poet, a 
great philosopher maker, a great writer. His relation to us 
is not that of any one of these personages. Yet it is a relation, 
I think, of superior importance. Emerson is the friend and 
aider of those who would live in the spirit. I figure him to 
my mind as visible on earth still, in habit as he lived, but of 
heightened statue and shining feature; with one hand stretch- 
ed out toward the East, and the other toward the West. To 
us in England, he shows for guidance, his lucid freedom, his 
cheerfulness and hope; to you in America, his dignity, his 
delicacy, serenity, and elevation." 



Golden Winged Days 41 

Arnold's verdict as to Emerson's place among men of 
letters — being the verdict of aworld critic — stands conclusive. 
But it may be questioned how far the Englishman was quali- 
fied by circumstances, by training and by temperament to 
pronounce a final dictum upon the philosophic greatness of 
America's best beloved moral teacher. The vaporings of 
Transcendentalism will ever obtain against the quality of 
Emerson's works, taken as a whole; but that portion of his 
writings which is clear of airy speculation is, from Emerson 
to the world, a message for all time 



Philistinism 

Matthew Arnold is a twofold critic: he is a critic of 
literature and he is a critic of men. As a critic of literature 
he has few if any equals. He is a master of English expres- 
sion, as Sainte Beauve is of French. His clear, definitive 
thought, and his pure limpid style, aside from the matter of 
his discourse, is a delight to "the rational man." So appre- 
ciated is Arnold by his fellow-craftsmen that he might be 
called the critic's critic, as Shelley is termed the poet's poet. 
As a critic of men his style remains the same — with a differ- 
ence: luminous in thought, perfect in diction, but with an 
added sting — like the cutting of a sharp instrument. As a 
critic of men Arnold knew well how to touch the weak spot; 
not so well how to heal the wound. He is no longer the prose 
poet; he is the surgeon with nerve and skill, but not always 
with the good surgeon's tender heart. 

It is possible there is a resemblance between modern and 
ancient Philistinism. Some, however, regard the fancied 
likeness as overdrawn; while others strongly object to the 



42 Golden Winged Days 

present application of the word, owing to the obloquy which 
its use casts upon an honorable nation, though they be a peo- 
ple extinct. The appellation has been in use for some years 
on the Continent, but it did not till of late become familiar 
to English-speaking people. Its acceptance and wide use 
(by Matthew Arnold in particular) made it a name to con- 
jure with. Arnold found it applicable in describing a cer- 
tain type of very obtuse persons; and since his adoption of 
it, he has used it extensively and with a keen appreciation of 
its fitness to the case in hand. In contradistinction to the 
enlightened ones, he speaks of those whom he regards Phil- 
istines as "humdrum people, slaves to routine, enemies to 
light, stupid and oppressive, but at the same time very 
strong." And again he says: *' Philistinism must have 
meant originally in the minds of those who invented the nick- 
name, a strong, dogged opponent of the chosen people — of 
the children of light." Arnold justifies its use by the re- 
semblance which he is able to see between the so-called mod- 
ern Philistines and the people who lived in the time of the 
Hebrew kings. He holds that the ancient people, being dead 
and buried, are in no wise mahgned by the opprobrium 
which of late has been attached to their name. 

In Matthew Arnold's Phihstia are included the Ger- 
man, the Englishman and the American. The German does 
not realize nor care what Arnold thinks about him; the En- 
glishman suffers; and the American laughs it off and tries to 
forget. The Frenchman alone is the exception; of him Ar- 
nold writes as of no other man. The adoption of the name 
Philistine is variously explained. It is certain however that 
the modern use of the term rose in Germany; and that the per- 
sons so designated have long been numerous in that country 
is evidenced by their early christening. In Heine's time 
Germany was pronounced by the poet "the land of the Phil- 



Golden Winged Days 43 

istines. '* Arnold has much to say of German Philistinism; 
but he is far more patient with the type as seen in Germany 
than he is with the same class as observed in other lands. 
In referring to the German, Arnold contents himself with 
simply pointing out his limitations, and even sees some good 
in him. He says : '* Philistinism is a plant of essentially Ger- 
man growth, flourishing with its genuine marks only in the 
German fatherland, in Great Britain and her colonies and 
in the United States of America. But " — the distinction is 
quite marked — ** in Germany the steady going habit leads 
up to science, up to the comprehension and interpretation of 
the world," 

The Philistines in England were the special objects of 
Arnold's continuous attack. Searching for causes of the 
supposed intellectual thraldom of the English, Arnold 
says: *'The English, profoundly as they have modified the 
old Middle Age order, great as is the liberty which they have 
secured for themselves, have in all their changes, proceeded, to 
use a familiar expression, by the rule of thumb. What 
was intolerably inconvenient to them they have suppressed; 
and as they have suppressed it not because it was irrational 
but because it was practically inconvenient, they have sel- 
dom, in suppressing it, appealed to reason; but always, if pos- 
sible, to some precedent or form or letter which served as a 
convenient instrument for their purpose, and which saved 
them fror:; the necessity of recurring to general principles. " 
Arnold seems inclined to ascribe their presumed obtuseness 
to new ideas, to the composite character of the English 
people. In Celtic Literature he writes: "It is not a sheer 
advantage to have several strings to our bow! If we had 
been all Germans we might have had the science of Ger- 
many; if we had been all Celtics we might have been popu- 
lar and agreeable; if we had been all Latinized we might 



44 Golden Winged Days 

have governed Ireland without getting ourselves detested. 
But now we have Germanized enough to make us PhiHstines, 
and Latinized Normanism enough to make us imperious, 
and Celtism enough to make us self-conscious and awk- 
ward." Arnold is especially sensitive to national self-com- 
placency; more particularly as he sees it shown in his own, 
the boasted Middle Class. In one instance, he refers to 
certain expressions which have been used so much that 
they have become stereotyped, such as "The great Middle 
Class is the backbone of the English nation." Not only 
does he find the most objectionable form of Philis- 
tinism in his native land; but the vast body of them, even 
there, appear to be of his own class. The Philistines at 
home are a source of infinite torture to Arnold: he has noth- 
ing to say in extenuation of what he regards their dullness 
and hopeless provincialism. There is a minor note in 
most of Arnold's writings concerning his countrymen, 
and it is partly traceable to the fact that he believes England 
to be in bondage to the Philistines. It seems to him that 
after centuries of civilization, naught but the leaven of 
culture remains; and that leaven may be found only in the 
universities. To Arnold, Oxford, **the adorable dreamer," 
is culture personified; and to him all England else, " the land 
of the commonplace," is dreary Philistia. Writing of 
England under Philistine influence, he says: *' There has 
certainly followed from hence a general depression of intel- 
ligence. The born lover of ideas, the born hater of the com- 
monplace must feel in England that the sky over his head is 
of brass and iron. If we are doomed to perish (Heaven avert 
the omen!) we shall perish by our selfwill and want of pa- 
tience with ideas: our inability to see the way the world is 
going. " English critics and statesmen have suggested sever- 
al methods to exterminate British Philistinism. Arnold's 



Golden Winged Days 45 

idea is that the study of the Celtic language, if made compul- 
sory, would gradually banish ignorance and be a strong in- 
centive to the attainment of culture. He writes: " At this 
moment when the narrow Philistinism, which has long had 
things all its own way in England,is showing its natural fruits, 
and we are beginning to feel ashamed and uneasy and alarm- 
ed at it — at such a moment, it needs some moderation not to 
be attacking Philistinism by storm, but to mine through 
such general means as the slow approaches of culture and the 
introductions of chairs of Celtic. " Cobden believed in the 
infusion of new blood and new ideas from over sea. His 
thought was that England should make a better acquain- 
tance with the United States. His suggestion, made many 
years ago, is interesting in the light of recent international 
experiments and developments. Arnold's mind was not 
furnished with the state-craft of a Cobden or of a Cecil 
Rhodes: he treats the suggestion rather facetiously. He re- 
marks: ** Chicago has claims upon us no doubt; but" — 
and he turns to his favorite thought — "what Oxford should 
give England are not lectures on Chicago, but lectures on 
Celtic languages and literature." 

Matthew Arnold deals severely with his own people; and 
it is to be expected he will be equally as critical with his kin 
beyond sea. And so he is, only in a different way. Of the 
Americans he says: '*The Philistines are the great bulk of 
the American nation. A livelier sort of Philistinism than 
ours. As we have found that the strongest and most vital 
part of English Philistinism was the Puritan and Hebraizing 
Middle Class, so it is notorious that the people of the United 
States issues from that class and reproduces its tendencies." 

Comparisons are ever out of favor. But Arnold finds 
estimates necessary in order to clarify the thought he wishes 
to convey. After all, there may be an indirect compliment in 



46 Golden Winged Days 

a comparison, since in every comparison a degree of likeness 
is implied. To Arnold the French are a superior people. 
He does not attempt to compare the Germans with the 
French; but the demerits of other nations are brought 
out only as he is able to measure them with the favored race. 
The comparisons which Arnold institutes between the Eng- 
lish and the French are naturally painful to his own country- 
men. His criticisms are made somewhat irritating to them 
from the fact that alongside of the limitations and dullness 
which he attributes to the English, he throws a flashlight upon 
what he considers the sparkle and charm of the French, in the 
same social grade. Arnold finds the Englishman narrow, 
slow, chained to custom, phlegmatic; he sees the French- 
man versatile, alert, alive to new ideas and responsive to 
every influence which comes near him. Arnold is himself 
English in blood, but all French in temperament. The typi- 
cal Englishman is an alien to him. But the typical French- 
man is of a nature similar to his own; and his recognition and 
appreciation of him are instantaneous. Arnold's compari- 
son of the Americans and the French is not quite so unequal. 
In his Mixed Essays he shows that he never has it in his 
mind that the Americans are a stupid people. His estimate 
is based not so much upon American and French character- 
istics, as upon contrasting conditions of the two civilizations. 
He deplores our want of historical background: but he 
forgets he may not logically complain of that. He says: 
*'The old French nobility established a high and charming 
ideal of social intercourse and manners, for a nation formed 
to profit by such an ideal; and which has profited ever 
since. In America we see the disadvantages of having 
social equality before there has been any such high standard 
of social life and manners formed." Arnold's ideal of 
civilization is that of ancient Greece. He writes: "The 



Golden Winged Days 47 

spectacle of ancient Athens has profound interest for a 
rational man. It is the spectacle of the culture of a people. 
It is not an aristocracy leavening with its own high spirit the 
multitude and leaving it the unformed multitude still; it is 
not a democracy, acute and energetic, but tasteless, narrow- 
minded and ignoble. It is the Middle and Lower Classes in 
the highest development of their humanity that these classes 
have yet reached. In the conversations recorded by Plato 
and Xenophon (which for the free yet refined discussion of 
ideas have set the tone for the civihzed world) tradesmen and 
shopkeepers mingle as speakers. This is why a handful of 
Athenians are more interesting than the millions of most 
nations, our contemporaries." Arnold believes that France 
presents the nearest — indeed the only — modern approach 
to the civiHzation of ancient Greece. He thinks France 
alone knows where are to be found the sources of human 
satisfaction: ** For France is the only country in Europe 
where the people are the most ahve. " In writing of the 
French and what he calls "their demands on life," he speci- 
fies those things in them as a nation which seem to him most 
admirable. He says: *' If we consider the beauty and ever 
advancing perfection of Paris (nay the same holds good of 
all the great French cities also) if we consider the theatre 
there; if we consider the pleasures, the recreations, even the 
eating and drinking; if we consider the whole range of re- 
sources for instruction and for delight, for the convenience 
of human life generally, we shall find that the advantage of 
France rises from its immense Middle Class making the 
same sort of demands upon life which only a comparatively 
small Upper Class makes among ourselves. In France the 
whole Middle Class make upon life the demands of 
civilized men; and this immense demand creates the civili- 
zation we see. And the joy of their civiHzation creates the 



48 Golden Winged Days 

passionate delight and pride in France which we find in 
Frenchmen. Life is so good and agreeable a thing there, 
and for so many. " 

Matthew Arnold is deservedly entitled the apostle of 
culture. He brings a peculiar radiance with him. His 
gleam reveals the rocks; but like the glare from a light-house, 
it is brightest far away, while around the base of the pillar 
the darkness still remains. Could he but come down to a 
sympathetic level with those to whom he speaks, how bright- 
ly he might illumine their dull paths! For men are neither 
indifferent nor stupid; but ignorant, and dumbly feel their 
limitations. The greater the limitations the deeper often 
the despair of getting beyond them. Arnold's criticisms of 
men are keenly enjoyed by the elect (who do not include 
themselves) but the plodders (whom with greater love he 
might have helped) are still where they were, with the pain- 
ful consciousness that they are unworthy of their birth-right, 
yet not knowing why. Matthew Arnold's countrymen heed 
him not, owing largely to his want of one-ness with them. 
The very men whom he wished to enlighten are his least in- 
terested audience: he will profit them little because he did 
not first win their hearts. 

But Arnold's illumined word, though having slight local 
effect, is nevertheless far-reaching, clear, unmistakable and 
fine. His message to the world is "expansion." No better 
summary of his views upon the ideal form of life may be 
found than that included in his *' Requisites for Civilization." 
He says : " I put first among the requisites for civilization, 
the instinct for expansion; because it is the basis which man's 
whole effort to civilize himself pre-supposes. The basis be- 
ing given, we may next enumerate the powers which, upon 
this basis, contribute to build up human civilization. They 
are the powers of conduct, intellect, knowledge, beauty, 



Golden Winged Days 49 

science, social life and manners. Here are the conditions of 
civilization — the claimants which man must satisfy before 
he can be humanized." 



BROWNING 
John Fust 

Browning was a prolific poet. His works, including his 
dramas and short poems, embrace sixteen volumes. He 
wrote a few plays which were intended for the stage; but the 
majority of his dramatic works were written to be read. 
Browning's verse met with slow recognition and has never 
enjoyed great popularity. It is filled with his own charac- 
teristic philosophy, which, like that of Shakespeare, may be 
interpreted in a thousand ways. His disregard for poetic 
laws has brought censure upon him; notwithstanding his 
frequent affirmation that he is not ''willingly obscure." 
Browning's fame as a poet reached its height near the close 
of his life. Since that time he has been read attentively, and 
with an ever increasing appreciation. Critics there are to- 
day who pronounce him a false prophet, whose message is 
material rather than spiritual. Like Shakespeare again, he 
remains the object of attack and the sage of the ages. 

Among Browning's longer poems is " Parleyings with 
Certain People," which in form is part narrative and part 
dialogue. The full title of the poem is: "Parleyings with 
certain People of Importance in their Day, to wit, Bernard de 
Mandeville, etc. Introduced by a dialogue between Apollo 
and the Fates, and concluded by another between John Fust 



50 Golden Winged Days 

and his Friends." The discussion in prologue, parleyings 
and epilogue is as to the supremacy of good or evil upon the 
earth. In the dialogue between Apollo and the Fates, the 
sun-god strives to persuade the sisters that life is all good. 
Under the influence of w^ine they relent and agree that life is 
part good. Apollo pleads for Admetus, that he be spared. 
The effect of wine passing off the Fates threaten doom upon 
the hapless favorite of the god. In the parleyings with 
the illustrious dead, Browning professedly seeks ** no 
fresh knowledge," but "fuller truth yet: new gleanings from 
the grave, and truth's triumph. " As to the pre-eminence of 
right or wrong in the world, the argument is thus stated: 

How helpful could we quote 
One poor instance when God interposed, 
Promptly and surely and beyond mistake. 
Between oppression and it's victim. 
So might we safely mock at what unnerves 
Faith now; be spared the sappings fears increase, 
That haply evil's strife with good shall cease 
Never on earth. Nay, after earth comes peace 
Born out of life-long battle. Man's lip curves 
With scorn: there also what if justice swerves 
From dealing doom V 

And in the dialogue between Fust and his Friends the 
theme is still the battle between right and wrong. 

The struggle between the forces of good and evil on the 
earth, is a subject which has been treated by many of the 
greatest poets. It is the theme of epics by Dante, Milton 
and Goethe. It is a sublime conception worthy of any 
poet's highest power, and one which would naturally attract 
Browning. For the elucidation of this subject several 
poets have chosen the same historical character: John 



Golden Winged Days 51 

Fust of Mayence. The product of Goethe's genius is the 
immortal drama of Faust; and the graceful and poetic 
characterization of Marlowe is known as Doctor Faustus. 
Goethe and Marlowe have each used Fust's supposed 
spiritual conflict as a typical experience of the soul, in 
choosing between good and evil; making the result in each 
instance fatal to Fust. According to both poets Fust was 
overcome by Satan and dragged down to the dreadful pit. 
Not so with Browning; his conception is very differ- 
ent. Instead of representing him as a weak, passionate, and 
tempted soul, Browning shakes off the calumny attached to 
his name and reveals the real John Fust: a simple, earnest, 
devout man. Browning's poem might well be called a justi- 
fication of John Fust. The gossip of the old printer's time, 
which attached a sort of infamy to his name, has dealt out a 
double punishment upon Fust. Cruel slander caused 
him to be persecuted in Hfe by his enemies; but what is far 
worse, destined him to be anathematized, after death, by the 
greatest of poets and of musicians. 

The original of Browning's epilogue, John Fust, was 
born in the year 1440 in Mayence, Germany. He was one 
of the three persons to whom is ascribed the invention of 
printing. Fust was a rich goldsmith, and was taken into the 
partnership to supply the money. The company lasted ten 
years, when Fust brought suit for the recovery of the money 
loaned; which, with interest, he computed at twice the origi- 
nal amount. He won the verdict for a certain sum, which his 
partner could not pay; where -upon Fust came into possession 
of the entire printing apparatus, and also of the business. 
Fust then took his son-in-law into partnership with himself 
and started anew. When the city of Mayence was taken, the 
art of printing was spread abroad — one good eflPect of war. 
That year Fust took some bibles, which he had printed, to 
Paris. While there, the striking similarity of the beautiful 



52 Golden Winged Days 

copies on vellum, ornamented with illuminated letters, at so 
insignificant a price, caused Fust to be accused of working 
magic; and the little ink-covered urchin, who was his errand 
boy, to be called a devil. So the report went out that Fust, 
or Faust, was in league with Satan. To keep secret the in- 
vention Fust claimed the printed pages were scribe-written 
manuscripts; thus unconsciously adding to his own confusion, 
till he was obliged to flee the city. Later the Parliament of 
Paris made a decree exonerating Fust of witchcraft, since 
the work was found to be the ** product of a new invention, 
unknown in Paris." Among: the books which bear Fust's 
name are the Psalter, the Bible (in the Vulgate) a German 
bible, Cicero Offices, and others. 

Browning's epilogue opens with the entrance of half a 
dozen of Fust's friends. Fust sits with his head bowed on his 
desk. The friends gather round him and begin to probe 
him about his supposed wicked deeds. Fust rouses himself 
and denies he ever did anything very wrong. Whereupon 
they try to frighten him, and tell him unless he confesses 
** the Fiend will come clawing with talons aflame." The 
friends labor a long time wth him, but all to no purpose; he 
will not say that he was ever in league with Satan: 

" I confess 

To many such fool-pranks, but none so outrageous 

That Satan was called in to help me: excess 

I own to, I grieve at — no more no less. " 

At last one of the friends had a happy thought, they must 
exorcise him: 

Second Friend: *' Do Satan despite! 

Remember what caused his undoing was pride! " 
First Friend: "Dumb devil! Remains one recourse to 

be tried!" 
Second Friend: *' Exorcise!" 



Golden Winged Days 53 

They are none of them very learned; but among them 
they manage to patch up a Latin psalm, which in time past 
had been used with good effect upon heretics and infidels. 
And so they apply it upon old Fust. So, solemnly the friends 
roll forth their Latin periods, and are delighted to find the 
charm works, and Fust is about to confess. 
" The knowledge ye claim, 

Behold, I prepare to impart. 

The slow travail of years, 
The long-teeming brain's birth, 

At last claims revealment. Wait!" 
Fust then goes into an inner room. The friends are all 
on the qui vive. What can he be doing ? They get so frigh- 
tened that one suggests running away. He cries in a terri- 
fied whisper 

*' Show courage and stay 
Hell's outbreak ? Sirs, cowardice here wins the day!" 
Suddenly Fust reappears. The printed paper slips, 
which he shows, confound his friends. They cannot make 
out what imps of darkness have penned so many perfect lines 
in five minutes. Fust hands them the proof, and promises 
any number more for distribution throughout Mayence. 
They are still silent with fright, when Fust tells them if they 
do not speak he will summon his spirits. The friends find 
voice at once and all call out together: 
*' Grace! grace! 
Call none of thy helpmates! We'll answer apace!" 
With this the old man goes to the door, and opening it re- 
veals the engine in the inner room. In a few touching words 
he refers to the many long years passed in experimenting, 
before the completion of his invention: 



54 Golden Winged Days 

" Brave full-bodied birth of this brain that conceived 
thee, 

I have thee — I hold thee — my fancy that seemed, 
My fact that proved palpable!" 

He proceeds to explain the working of the press in de- 
tail. His friends are overcome with the beauty and sim- 
plicity of the engine, and cannot understand how it could all 
be done without a miracle. Fust bursts forth into an apos- 
trophe to the Deity, which is very beautiful: 

'* Omniscient, omnipotent God, Thee I thank, 
Thee ever. Thee only! Thy creature that shrank 
From no task thou Creator imposedest! Creation 
Revealed me no object from insect to Man 
But bore Thy hand's impress. Earth glowed with sal- 
vation : 
Hast sinned ? Be thou saved, Fust! Continue my 
Plan. 

Have cheer, soul impregnate with purpose! 

The task I assign 
Embrace — thy allegiance to evil is ended!" 

Then comes the argument: how he has benefited 
man. All man wishes for is knowledge. Fust modestly 
claims to have helped man's thoughts to rise, as one helps a 
falcon to fly; and so he hopes to be saved from the effects of 
his own sins: 

" So, friends, did my fault find redemption. 

I sinned, soul-entoiled by the tether of sense: 

I plead no exemption 

From Satan's award to his servants; defense 



Golden Winged Days 55 

From the fiery and final assault would be — whence ? 
By making as man might to truth restitution! 

One more step to the goal 

Thanks for reaching I render — Fust's help to 
Man's soul!" 

The friends listen respectfully, till one asks gently: 
** Art thou happy?" 

The thoughts which follow from good old Fust are 
tinged with sadness. But they are the reflections of a 
great soul: 

" Through me does print furnish Truth wings ? The 
same aids 
Cause Falsehood to range just as widely. " 

In the epilogue the poet is supposed to collect all the 
threads of discourse which run through the parleyings 
and weave them into one strong argument, i. e. the 
predominance of good over evil in the world. But the 
epilogue (as well as the entire poem) weakens toward the 
close; its climax being the passage above quoted, where 
Fust gives to God the glory for the invention of printing. 
Portions of the epilogue however seem to enforce the main 
assertion; notably that part in which the poet attributes to 
labor a sort of propitiation for sin. And also the portion 
in which he acknowledges God's agency in man's uplift: 

" Shall Man, Microcosmos, to claim the conception 
Of grandeur, of beauty, in thought, word or deed ? 
I toiled, but Thy light on my dubiousest step shone: 
If I reach the glad goal, is it I who succeed 
(Who stumbled at starting, tripped up by a reed), 
Or Thou .? Knowledge only and absolute, glory 
As utter be Thine, who concedest a spark 
Of Thy spheric perfection to earth's transitory 
Existences! Nothing that lives but Thy mark 
Gives law to life's light: what is doomed to the dark ?" 



56 Golden Winged Days 

Browning's Friends 

Friendship is often but an experience of youth: its exis- 
tence depends upon circumstances, and with changed condi- 
tions it passes away. With Robert Browning the reverse 
was true. Slow in childhood and youth to make friends, in 
later life he drew them to himself as with a magnet, and held 
them as with hooks of steel. In boyhood, his case was to 
his relatives, an anomalous one. Of the solitary lad his sis- 
ter writes: " The fact was, poor boy, he had out-grown his 
social surroundings. They were absolutely good, but they 
were narrow. He chafed under them." However it may 
be accounted for, the fact remains that Browning had few 
friends in his youth; but for that small number he always 
retained a warm affection. His own words refer doubtless 
to the early period of his life 

I love and am loved by 
Some few, honest to the core." 

The initial step in Browning's social life was the publi- 
cation of several of his first poems. The verse itself was re- 
ceived with indifference;- but it commended him to some of 
the best minds, and introduced him to a larger circle than he 
had previously enjoyed. After its appearance Browning 
was thrown into intimate relations with Leigh Hunt, Barry 
Cornwall and Forster; and he was included in those famous 
little gatherings where were read first poems and plays. 
Says Mrs. Orr: " The friends old and new met in the infor- 
mal manner of those days, at afternoon dinners or late sup- 
pers at the houses of Mr. Fox or Mr. Macready. " Indeed 
the latter was one of Browning's very earliest admirers; but 
the self-interest which the actor displayed in his relation to 
the poet somewhat marred the beauty of their friendship. 
In the days of Browning's unpopularity Macready believed 



Golden Winged Days 57 

not only in the poet's genius, but in his untried dramatic 
talent. The actor, after some persuasion secured the poet's 
consent to write a play especially for him. The tragedy of 
Stafford was the result. At the conclusion of the first pre- 
sentation, a supper was given in honor of the author. Here 
were gathered a number of congenial spirits; among whom 
were Wordsworth and Landor. The manner of the former 
somewhat over-awed the young poet; but he was reassured 
by Wordsworth's cordial: ** I am proud to drink to your 
health, Mr. Browning. " The honor guest and Landor were 
especially drawn to each other; and later, when Browning 
found his eccentric friend alone and forsaken, he tenderly 
cared for him and became the old man's sole guardian. 
Matthew Arnold, Ruskin and Thackeray knew Browning; 
though each was prevented by circumstances from a close 
acquaintance with him. Notwithstanding their infrequent 
meetings, Arnold was always *' dear Mat" to the poet. Miss 
Martineau once crossed swords with Browning. She ac- 
cused him of being un-English, and resented his desire to 
study German. *' You are German enough already," she 
said. Rossetti loved Browning long before they met, from 
having read his poems. The very introduction of the young- 
er to the elder poet had in it a touch of romance. Rossetti 
had found, in the archives of the British Museum, a work 
that so entranced him, that without knowing the name of the 
author, he copied Pauline, entire. Browning had been 
equally drawn to Rossetti by his painting. So that when 
the two men met their hearts were warm toward each other, 
and the friendship then begun strengthened with succeeding 
years. Carlyle was one of Browning's earliest friends. The 
young poet makes a significant comment on one of their first 
meetings: " I dined with dear Carlyle and his wife yester- 
day (catch me calling people "dear" in a hurry, except in 



58 Golden Winged Days 

letter beginnings). I don't know any people like them." 

Browning's friends increased with his years. Nature 
and circumstances combined to widen the range and vary 
the character of his human interests. Carlyle stands pre- 
eminent among Browning's friends. One writer says: "For 
none can his feelings have been more constant or more dis- 
interested than that which bound him to Carlyle." And 
Browning himself said of this friend: '* Caryle I like infinite- 
ly more than I expected to like him. He is one of the most 
interesting men I could imagine; even deeply interesting to 
me. And you come to understand perfectly, when you 
know him, that his bitterness is only melancholy, and his 
scorn, sensibility. Highly picturesque he is too in conver- 
sation. The talk of writino; men is seldom so good. " Mrs. 
Orr says : " Browning visited him at Chelsea, in the very last 
days of Carlyle's long life; and as often as their distance from 
each other and his own engagements allowed. Even Carlyle's 
posthumous self-disclosure scarcely availed to destroy the 
affectionate reverence which Browning had always felt for 
him." 

The marriage of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Bar- 
rett was a revolution in the life of each. As the world knows, 
theirs was an ideal union. From henceforth a separate ex- 
istence seemed scarcely possible to either poet. Their devel- 
opment, however, was individual; and the work of each re- 
mained characteristic, showing no perceptible influence of one 
writer upon the other. Separately the Brownings were in- 
teresting personalities. Mrs. Browning delighted in the 
intellectual life; but with her, sympathy was almost a passion, 
and, unconsciously, she lived to comfort and to bless. Al- 
ways visible in life and in verse were the pure colors of her 
faith : ** Now a dart of red, now a dart of blue. " To Leigh 
Hunt she wrote, " I believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ in 



Golden Winged Days 59 

the intensest sense — that he was God absolutely. " Love 
was the motif of all she thought and of all she wrote: love for 
her own and for humanity. The Portuguese Sonnets, under 
the guise of translations, are simply a rhapsody of love. One 
poem alone describes the man Browning; and honors him 
more than all the other songs together: 

** Because thou hast the power, and ownest the grace, 

To look through and behind the mask of me, 

And behold my soul's true face — 

Because not sin nor woe, 

Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighborhood, 

Nor all which others viewing, turn to go; 

Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed — 

Nothing repels thee. Dearest teach me so 

To pour out gratitude, as thou dost good." 

Of Browning's personality we have this from Gosse: " No 
man ever showed a more handsome face to private friend- 
ship, no one disappointed less, no one upon intimate ac- 
quaintance required less to be apologized for or explained 
away." As love was Mrs. Browning's inspiration, so love 
deepened the nature of the poet himself. Browning's love 
for his wife was so sacred that he was wont to *' hush and bless 
himself with silence." Once and once only "did he dare to 
phrase it. " The poem One Word More are only a few lines 
to E. B. B. but they tell more by what they say and what 
they leave unsaid than ** fifty poems finished:" 

** Take them, love, the book and me together; 

Where the heart lies let the brain lie also. 

Oh, their Raphael of their dear Madonnas, 
Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno; 
Wrote our song — and in my brain I sing it, 
Drew one angel borne, see on my bosom!* , 



6o Golden Winged Days 

The Brownings' choice of friends was characteristic of them 
both. They had a few intimates whom one knew better 
than did the other; and they had many mutual friends. The 
relation of Browning and Carlyle was limited to the affinity 
existing between the two men — there was no family intima- 
cy. Browning had a few other choice spirits who were par- 
ticularly congenial to himself; such friends, for instance, as 
those who composed a certain historic group. A charming 
interior is this glimpse of them all together in Browning's 
home. Besides the family there were present Tennyson and 
Rossetti. The former read Maud to the little circle, while 
the latter sketched from life the now famous portrait of 
Tennyson. Monkhouse says, referring to Rossetti's sketch 
of Tennyson: *' It is a record of a meeting of four of the 
greatest poets of the century to hear the greatest of the four 
read his greatest poem." Mrs. Browning loved women of 
homely domestic virtues; but she was strongly drawn to wo- 
men of genius. It was through her initiative that an ac- 
quaintance was made with George Sand. The genius, how- 
ever, of that great woman was not sufficient to make her 
society indispensable to Mrs. Browning. It was a question 
how a meeting should be brought about. Mrs. Browning 
gives a description of the dilemma: " I pricked Robert up 
to the leap; for he was inclined to sit in his chair and be proud 
a little. 'No' I said, 'you shant be proud, and I wont be 
proud, and we will see her. I wont die if I can help it with- 
out seeing George Sand.' She received us very cordially 
with her hand held out, which I, in the emotion of the mo- 
ment, stooped and kissed. The hands offered me were 
small and well shaped. She was dressed in a soft gray gown, 
with jacket of the same material. Her manners were quite 
as simple as her costume. I never saw a simpler woman. 
Not a shade of affectation, not a shade of coquetry, not a 



Golden Winged Days 6i 

cigarette to be seen. She spoke rapidly, with a low, em- 
phatic voice. Repose of manner is more characteristic than 
animation is, only under all the quietness, and perhaps by 
means of it, you are aware of an intense, burning soul." 
And again Mrs. Browning writes: *' She seemed to live in 
abomination of desolation as regards society. Crowds of ill- 
bred men who adore her; society of the ragged-red, diluted 
with the low theatrical. She herself so different, so apart, 
so alone in her melancholy disdain." It must have been 
while the impression of that meeting was fresh in her mind 
that Mrs. Browning wrote to George Sand A Recognition: 

True genius, but true woman, 
While before 
The world thou burnest in a poet fire, 
We see thy woman's heart beat evermore 
Through the large flame. Beat 
Purer, heart, and higher. " 

The Brownings together drew out the best that was in 
their friends. Eccentricities of talent often vanished in 
their presence — sharp angles were softened into curves, 
when brought into contact with the genial courtesy of the 
poets. Together, they gave far more than they received. 
Says Hillard: *' It is a privilege to know such beings, singly 
and separately. But to see their powers quickened and 
their happiness rounded by the sacred ties of marriage is a 
cause of peculiar and lasting gratitude." While living in 
Italy the Brownings had many American friends. Indeed, 
the poet always had a warm place in his heart for Americans; 
for he once said, with a touch of sadness, that they had his 
poems in every village when the English scorned everything 
he wrote. Among the Browning intimacies, such as one 
family would have with another, were the Storys, the Ossolis, 



62 Golden Winged Days 

and the Hawthorns; all Americans. When the Brownings 
met the Storys in Italy the sculptor's fame was already estab- 
lished; and a delightful intimacy sprang up between the two 
households. A little picnic in the woods found Mrs. Brown- 
ing unable to climb the rocks. Browning let the party made 
up of the Storys and others go on while he remained with her 
all day. *' The only man I ever knew to behave like a 
Christian to his wife," a youthful cynic gayly cried. So 
moved was Browning by this chance word that his voice 
failed him in speaking of it. A reference in a letter throws 
light on the intimacy between the two families : *' Our friends 
the Storys help the mountains to please us a good deal. We 
go backwards and forwards to tea and talk at one another's 
houses." Again allusion is made to the Storys having se- 
cured apartments for them and upon their arrival receiving 
them "to lighted fires and lamps, as if coming home; and 
showing us their own smiling faces in the evening. " Ma- 
dame Ossoli, known in America as Margaret Fuller, lived 
while in Italy not far from the Brownings. She spent sever- 
al of her last evenings, before leaving for America, in their 
home. She and they strangely dreaded the parting. She 
left with them a small bible for Pen, in which she 
had written the name of her own little boy. Is it not 
possible that the companionship of a woman who was 
far her superior and who yet possessed a simple faith in 
Christ, may have brought about this mute confession from 
the intellectual and erstwhile doubting Margaret ? Per- 
haps Hawthorne was the Brownings' most valued Ameri- 
can friend. The silent guest came and went as he 
pleased, inviting no comment from either host or hostess. 
In the presence of Mrs. Browning his shyness van- 
ished; and he was more communicative with her than he 
was with most men. Julian Hawthorne in his pronounced 



Golden Winged Days 63 

and somewhat irresponsible style has dashed down a few 
recollections of the Brownings : ** When I was a boy I lived 
in Italy, and ate figs off the trees. Our tower was not the 
only one in the neighborhood. On the contrary there was 
quite a crop of them thereabout. The Brownings, wife hus- 
band and son lived within ten minutes walk of our gate. 
And they being admirers of the Scarlet Letter, and we of their 
poetry, it followed that we saw a good deal of one another. 
Wishing to be strictly accurate the younger Hawthorne adds: 
** I confess I had not read Aurora Leigh, and was less famil- 
iar with Sordello. Did not in fact suspect that such a poem 
existed. Mr. Browning appealed to me on the human basis 
solely. His talk was utterly incomprehensible to me; and I 
could see no reason for his habitual intellectual and emo- 
tional high pressure. He seemed to be always jumping 
about and apostrophizing." Julian disposes of the person- 
ality of poor little Pen in much the same ofF-hand fashion: 
" He was according to all accounts, a highly cultivated and 
excellent boy; but I know nothing about it from personal 
experience. For at that period when I met a strange boy 
my first thought used to be "Can I thrash him ?" and I was 
apt to follow it up by trying to do it. But I should no more 
have thought of knocking down Pennini Browning than if he 
had been a mantel ornament. And this first step toward a 
mutual understanding being impossible, we never got fur- 
ther than eyeing each other silently. " 

While Mrs. Browning still lived Browning looked for- 
ward in anticipation to '* an age so blest that youth seems the 
waste instead." But the sorrow of parting came all too 
soon, and the poet was left desolate. Immediately following 
the death of his wife Brownins; withdrew himself from social 
life, and seemed to grow not only sad but even morose. 
Fortunately, his writings began to receive wide attention; and 



64 Golden Winged Days 

he himself was brought, perforce, into contact with other 
minds. Gradually human intercourse became more and 
more a necessity to him; and even the delightful coterie which 
his wife had gathered round them did not compare with the 
soceity which Browning, in the rich and ripe years of his own 
life, attracted to himself. When he returned to make his 
permanent home in England, he at once took his natural 
place among eminent Englishmen, and entered heartily into 
the life of an honored man of letters. From learned bodies 
he was extended high recognition. The University of Ox- 
ford conferred upon him the Master of Arts degree by diplo- 
ma; and the same month he was made honorary Fellow of 
Balliol College. Later he was offered the rectorship of the 
Universities of Glasgow and of St. Andrews. Academic honors 
brought with them new and prized associates. Browning 
became identified with the universities. His letters of 1877 
refer to his enlarged life: ** I was welcomed on arriving (at 
Oxford) by a Fellow who installed me in my rooms. Then 
came Jowett who took me to tea with his other guests, the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, Bishop of London, and Dean of 
Westminster. Then came the banquet. Lord Coleridge, 
in silvery speech, drank to the University; responded to by 
the Vice-chancellor. Professor Smith gave the two Houses 
of Parliament; Jowett the Clergy. Lord Lansdown drank 
to the bar; Mr. Green to Literature and Science, delivering a 
most undeserved eulogium on myself with a more rightly 
directed one on Arnold and Swinburne. The Dean of West- 
minster gave the Fellows and Scholars, and then — twelve 
o'clock struck. We were fully five and a half hours nailed 
to our chairs at the table. But the whole thing was brilliant, 
genial and suggestive of many and various thoughts to me. 
And there was a warmth and earnestness about it which I 
never experienced in any previous dinner. " 



Golden Winged Days 65 

A lesser honor, but one which he appreciated, was the 
establishment of the Browning Society. The men who 
formed this body were sufficient to give it distinction. From 
the first its interests were furthered by Archdeacon Farrar 
and Dean Boyle of Salisbury. But notwithstanding its 
membership, its survival was always uncertain. The pub- 
lic and the press threw many a sly stone, and even the poet 
smiled at some of its eccentricities. We have heard of ad- 
mirers appealing to Browning for the meaning of certain 
passages in his works and how the poet's quizzical reply set 
the town laughing: *'I really can't explain. Ask the Brown- 
ing Society!" 

Browning now had friends among the intellectual men 
of all classes. One who had not seen him for twenty years, 
and met him at dinners, wrote about him: '* Had I never 
been told who Mr. Browning was I never would have recog- 
nized him. He was handsomer; his hair was white. His 
manner composed and serene. At table he was never ora- 
cular, nor did he care to Macaulayize. He kept to the quiet 
give and take of the best table-talk; but he had depths which 
were rather felt than seen. He was a perfect gentleman of 
not exactly an old school, but a sedate modern school. 
Browning's tastes drew him into companionship with clergy- 
men; not that he cared for theology, but that many cultured 
men were dignitaries of the church. A reciprocal appre- 
ciation and love existed between Browning and successive 
archbishops and bishops, deans of Westminster and St. 
Pauls. Among such friendly enemies the poet delighted to 
swing his free lance; while the clergymen often turned their 
heavy guns upon him only to acknowledge him the victor. 
He was also a frequent guest in castle and countryhouse: 
with Lord Carnarvon at Highclere castle and Lord Shrews- 
bury at Alton Towers, Lord Brownlee at Ashridge, and 



66 Golden Winged Days 

others. As one jokingly said: ** Browning, like Thackeray, 
would not object to being met in Piccadilly, arm in arm with 
a duke. " Invitations into the best English houses continued 
to the last; but his acceptance of them grew less and less fre- 
quent. They had helped to furnish him with that which he 
most desired: an intimate knowledge of men. Here as else- 
where he found his affinities and allowed the others to pass. 
Browning did not reach his highest thought till well ad- 
vanced in years. Says one writer: " Browning's thought 
was progressive, taking on new shades of meaning to the very 
last." And Grosse writes: ** Long as he lived he did not 
live long enough for one of his ideals to vanish, for one of his 
enthusiasms to lose its heat." Near its close, life found 
him blessed with ''honor, love, obedience, troops of friends 
and all that should accompany old age. " To return to his 
best friend — his beloved wife — and that re-union which 
meant so much to each. It was to the inspiration of a per- 
fect love that Browning owed his final power of self-revela- 
tion. E'er he passed over to greet her, after long years of 
separation, he wrote: 

'* My own, see where the years conduct! 
At first 'twas something our two souls 

Should mix as mists do 

Think when our one soul understands 
The great Word which makes all things new — 
When earth breaks up and heaven expands, 
How will the change strike me and you. 
In the house not made with hands ?" 



Golden Winged Days 67 

ROBERT BROWNING THE SCHOLAR 

Preliminary to the study of Browning's intellectual life, 
a glance should be given to his environment — social, political, 
and mental — during his most fruitful years. His youth v^as 
a day of quiescence: there were no outer forces to rouse and 
stimulate his faculties. But later on came strife and stir in 
all the world about him; and with his glorious zest he threw 
himself into the midst of things. The fourth quarter of the 
nineteenth century is a period anomalous in the ages. It is 
approached only by the epoch immediately following the 
French Revolution, and by the time of Shakespeare. The 
last thirty years are notable not only for mental expansion, 
but for moral and social phenomena which doubtless it 
caused. It is unnecessary deviation to recount the various 
influences making for a higher civilization, which rose sim- 
ultaneously throughout Europe. The silent revolutions in 
public opinion with regard to individualism; the clashing of 
men's views concerning the origin and destiny of the race; 
the slow undermining of long accepted dogmas together 
with the blind groping for actualities; all these things have 
disturbed the social atmosphere, and kept responsive minds 
in a constant state of unrest. The prophets of the time are 
Jerem.iahs and Isaiahs, whether they storm like Carlyle or 
sing in minor like Arnold. Tennyson's noble voice is possi- 
bly the greatest among them; but others like George Eliot, 
Ruskin, Newman, Macaulay and Thackeray, have set in 
motion various and powerful currents of influence which 
may never be reckoned. The political turmoil, the religious 
struggles, the triumph of science, there were too many prob- 
lems for all but the strongest minds. Then was Browning's 
occasion : just at his own life's prime. 

We propose to study not so much the poet's gifts as his 



68 Golden Winged Days 

acquirements, not so much his genius as his scholarship. 
Great in talent, he was greater in self-culture. His vast 
knowledge was not confined to any clime or any time or any 
theme: he knew countries, he knew ages, he knew people 
and things. Of his various climes Walkes says: *' It is inter- 
esting to note the mere geographical breadth of his subjects :" 
Strafford y and A Blottn the Scutcheon, are English; Peracelsus 
and Colombe's Birthday, are German; The Return of the 
Druses, is Eastern. But of all countries he loved Italy best. 
Among his many Italian poems are Sordello, Pippa Passes, 
King Victor and King Charles, Luna, A Soul's Tragedy, 
Dramatic Lyrics, and Dramatic Romances. Of his divers 
times Dawson says: " His poems cover strangely vivid and 
exact productions of medieval life and thought, glimpses of 
the authentic life of the ancient world not less than of the 
modern; yet all touched with the precision which marks the 
student and the scholar. " [To the diversity of his times 
and the variety of his climes only a collective refer- 
ence is possible. We now leave generalization, and attempt 
a more specific study of his many themes.] 

How shall we ever recount his multitudinous themes ? 
His special subjects were art, music, religion, and classic 
lore. He also chose a variety of general topics; and occa- 
sionally he presented a vigorous phase of science. 

Browning has written more nobly and more sympathet- 
ically than almost any other poet upon art and music; but 
he has scorned every form of dilettanteism. In Old Pic- 
tures if7 Florence is found his creed with respect to art. 
There are many poems which reflect the artist's tempera- 
ment and ideals. Some of them are little bits of stories told 
in the exquisite jargon of Bohemia; others are themselves 
word-paintings. His knowledge of technique and his wide 
familiarity with art subjects are shown in Andrea del Sarto, 



Golden Winged Days 69 

Fra Lippo Lippi, and The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. 

Praxed's. His best landscapes are impressions: a few 

dashes of the brush and the certain color and sure stroke tell 

the tale: 

*' In at heaven and out again 
Lightning! where it broke the roof 
Blood-like, some few drops of rain." 

His detailed miniature work is done only when he is writing 
for a child, as in The Englishman in Italy. His familiarity 
with oriental architecture is shown in the description of 
Constantinople, which opens Part H oi Paracelsus: 

Over the waters of the vaporous West, 
The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold. 
Behind the arm of the city, which between, 
With all the length of domes and minarets, 
Athwart the splendor, black and crooked runs 
Like a Turk verse along a scimitar. " 

The varieties of knowledge shown in these few lines is a fair 
sample of much of Browning's poetry. He has interpreted 
the workings of the artistic spirit as it finds expression in 
poetry, in painting, and in architecture; but perhaps«.most ot 
all in music. He was alive to the influence of harmony 
through his intelligence as well as through his emotions. He 
was master of the theory of music as appears in a great varie- 
ty of poems. In A Toccata of Galuppi's the music brings so 
many pictures to his mind that he seems to have lived in Ven- 
ice "where merchants were kings. " The music reflects for 
him not only the joyousness of Italian life, but its sadness as 
well: " Its lesser thirds so plaintive, it's sixth diminishing 
sigh on sigh, tell the votaries of pleasure something; its sus- 
pensions, its solutions, its commiserating sevenths awaken 
in them their hold on life. That question the music an- 



70 Golden Winged Days 

swers." Writing on Browning's knowledge of music as 
revealed in Abt Vogler, Kirkman says: ** The beautiful ut- 
terances of Richter alone approach to the value of Brown- 
ing's on music. He speaks of melody as Dante does of 
heaven: as of an experienced joy. Even musical Milton has 
given nothing of the nature o^ Abt Vogler. It should be per- 
fectly learned by heart; and it will be ever whispering anal- 
ogies to the soul in daily life." 

Browning's treatment of religious themes is found in 
Easter Day, Christmas Eve, Death in the Desert, Epistle of 
Karshish, The Monk in the Spanish Cloister, and Saul. The 
first two poems preserve inviolate his conception of Christ- 
ianity. Christmas Eve has in it something also of his humor; 
and the changing scene from the little Dissenting chapel in 
Rome to the agnostic lecture hall in Gottingen, reveals his 
mental quickness and impressibility. Easter Day is sombre 
throughout; and the refrain of the poem is in the first two 
lines : 

** How very hard it is to be 

A Christian!" 

In A Death in the Desert his reasoning might be objected 
to. We here realize that Browning was a reader of Strauss 
and Renan; else he could not have thwarted their subtle 
arguments so easily. The unreasonableness of the poem 
lies in the fact that St. John could not have known of these 
arguments save by prophetic insight. It is interesting to 
note what Symonds calls "the stilled sweetness and medita- 
tive tenderness of the beloved disciple." An Epistle of 
Karshish, more than any other poem, gives one a strong 
realization of Christ's miraculous power. Before passing 
from Browning's treatment of religious subjects, a reference 
should be made of his views of hypocrisy and kindred re- 
ligious shams. The Monk in the Spanish Cloister furnishes 



Golden Winged Days 71 

a revelation of human depravity such as is not often found in 
literature. In few of his poems is Browning's genius more 
apparent (nor truth to tell more repellent) than where he 
throws an intense furnace glare upon abnormal forms of 
spiritual life. Sometimes the effect is overwhelming. Of 
himself he says: 

I have gone the whole round of creation. I saw and 
I spoke. 

I report as a man may, on God's work — all's love yet 
all's law." 

It is a pleasure to turn from the soul-scourging to a high- 
er expression of his genius. Saul is one of his finest poems, 
and is a fitting close to this part of the subject. The theme 
is found in I Samuel, Chap. XVI; i-23rd. The scene be- 
tween David and the king shows the poet's mastery over 
oriental details: 

The tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered; and sparkles' 
'gan dart 
Fromthejewelsthatwoke in his turban, at once with a start — 
All its lordly male sapphires and rubies courageous at heart. 

We come now to those studies from which he drew in- 
spiration for many of his greatest poems: the inexhaustible 
fount of classical literature. In his earliest poem, Pauline, 
lies(to change the figure) the germ of almost all the qualities, 
humor excepted, which appear in his mature work. Love 
of art and music, intensity of religious belief together with a 
keeninsight in to thehuman soul and admirationoftheGreek 
classics — these are already manifest. No characteristic is 
more apparent, in the light of subsequent achievement, than 
the familiarity with Greek literature, shown not merely by 
the reference to Plato and to Agamemnon, but also in the 



72 Golden Winged Days 

passage ending: 

. Never morn broke clear as those 
On the mid clustered isles of the blue sea; 
The deep groves and w^hite temples and wet caves. " 
At the risk of being accused of pedantry he occasionally 
brings a little Latin into a poem; as for instance where Cris- 
tina cries out in classical terms, when we would think her ex- 
citement so great she would naturally fall into the vernacu- 
lar: 

Here's the gallery they trod, both together, he her god, 
She his idol — lend your rod, chamberlain! aye, there 

they are 
Quts separabit? . 
So familiar was the poet with the Greek and Latin classics 
that a mere reference in one of the old writers would start 
within his mind a wonderful train of thought. In an ode 
in the third book of Horace the lines, '* 'Justem et tenacem 
propositi virum," roused his poetic fire by the allusion to 
stern and relentless qualities. An old Latin MS. which he 
found in Rome was the basis of '' The Ring and the Book. " 
The little, square, old, yellow volume was duly translated 
from the Latin before he began to develop his great poem : 

" Bit by bit I dug 
The lingot truth, that memorable day; 
Assayed: and knew my piece-meal gain was gold. " 

As he was charmed with the Latin writers so he was devoted 
to the Greek poets. In Balaustion he acquired so much of 
the ancient phraseology that in the minds of some he out- 
rivals Euripides. But however exaggerated the too intense 
Browningism may become, and whatever may be said of the 
blank verse o{ Balaustion, in one unmistakable sense the poet 
has shown his scholarship — I mean in the translation. 
Browning's own canon of translation is characteristic: *' To 



Golden Winged Days 73 

be literal at every cost save that of violence to our language. '* 
The only justifiable criticism lies in the omissions; and the 
length, not the difficulty, of the Greek text may have been the 
obstructing cause. In one feature of his work as a transla- 
tor he certainly v^^arms the heart of every true exegete of the 
Greek tongue. He is not only literal in the sense of following 
the original word for word, but what is far more important 
to a lover of the classics, he gives the exact root meaning of 
words. 

Thus Browning becomes one of the greatest of poets; 
since with his gift he is also in the highest and most conscien- 
tious sense a scholar. In Aristophanes'' Apology he goes still 
deeper into classic lore. This poem was not published until 
1875, and is a sequel to Balaustions Adventure. It opens 
with a defense made by Aristophanes of his treatment of 
Euripides. Balaustion replies by reading the whole of 
Herakles (which here Browning translates). Thus the poem 
is seen to contain two parts : the Apology of Aristophanes and 
the translation of the play of Euripides. In Balaustion s 
Adventure the translation is worked into the body of the 
poem; while the Browning verse is spoken of as "the amber 
which embalms Alcestis." In the Apology the translation 
is almost like a detached manuscript. The same accuracy 
is observable in this translation as in the former. There is 
also an added charm in the lyrical rendering of the lyrical 
parts of the play. The original parts of the Apology show 
more profound classical knowledge than the original parts of 
Balaustion. In the Apology Browning seems to have be- 
come so imbued with the spirit of the old drama that there is 
not even the semblance of a modern about him. It is severe 
reading for any but a thorough Greek scholar; for the allu- 
sions to recondite subjects are not only numerous but con- 
tinuous, and there is no thought which does not present a 



74 Golden Winged Days 

dull, scholastic tone. After all, though the local color is so 
heavily laid on, the atmosphere is not really Grecian. Athe- 
nian customs, Greek names, the plays of Euripides and Aris- 
tophanes suggest pictures of Grecian life fascinating indeed; 
but it may be questioned whether in reading the Browning 
parts of the Apology one becomes more interested in the 
poem or in the necessarily copious annotations. Perhaps 
the highest value of the original verse lies in its being looked 
upon as a contribution to criticism, showing as it does *'a 
vital knowledge of the Attic drama and the work and person- 
ality of Aristophanes and Euripides." The only experi- 
ment which Browning made in classic style (though as we 
know he many times chose classic themes) was Artemis Pro- 
logizes, which afterward became a part of a longer work. In 
this poem he first adopted Greek spelling of proper names; 
a practice which he continued (more consistently, as it seems 
to me) in writings which were direct transcripts from the 
Greek. We have already referred to Browning's theory of 
translation. In one of his most erudite studies he prefaces 
the volume v/ith that theory carefully amplified. The 
Agamemnon of Aeschylus is the work of a scholar rather 
than that of a poet. We quote at length from the preface, 
since the laws laid down are only those which he signally ob- 
served himself. In translating from a work so famous. 
Browning says, ' ' The use of certain allowable constructions 
which, happening to be out of daily favor, are all the more 
appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence. " He 
continues: " I should especially decline, what might 
appear to brighten up a passage, the employment of a new 
word for some old one, ttoVo? or /^eyo? or t€\o<;, with its 
congeners recurring four times in three lines. 
And lastly, I should expect the result to be very hard reading 
indeed if it were meant to resemble Aeschylus." Along so 



Golden Winged Days 75 

difficult a line Browning proceeded to his task. What 
is the result? It is as it could not fail to be: a 
valuable translation from the Greek — a veritable photograph 
of the Agamemnon. But v^here is the poet ? He is lost in 
the scholar. At the time of its publication tvs^o very criti- 
cal reviews of it appeared, one in the Athenaeum and one in 
the Academy. After a skillful analysis of the infinitesimal 
accuracies and minute phraseology of the poem, one review- 
er, who seems himself to be something of a student, remarks 
rather naively, *' The reading is so very hard that it is some- 
times necessary to refer to the Greek for the explanation of 
the English." Certainly a novel method for a busy man with 
scholarly tastes to enjoy dipping into his Aeschylus, through 
a friendly translation! This critic gives several references 
to ** minute and happy accuracies of phrase re-creations of 
the very thoughts of Aeschylus," and of " incomparable dex- 
terity in matching word for word, and maintaining the exact 
order of the original." Browning's desire to render the 
turn of each phrase in as Greek a fashion as English will bear 
has led him to use phrases "which are native to Greek but 
foreign to English." The result, so uncertain as to its gen- 
eral acceptability, is most welcome to the student since he 
finds so much to please him in this ** attempt to give our lan- 
guage the similitude of the Greek by close and sustained 
grappling, word for word, with so sublime and difficult a 
masterpiece." We pass quickly over Echetlos, the legend 
of Marathon, in which the mysterious helper came to the 
Greeks in rustic garb and armed with plough; and over the 
Virgilian legend, treating lightly of 

'* Arcadia, night, a cloud. Pan, and the moon. " 

One of the most beautiful passages in Browning is the 
reference in Ixion to the potency beyond even the great Zeus. 
(The poem presents a number of equally memorable lines — 
the theme and verse in harmony): 



76 Golden Winged Days 

" Back must I fall, confess " Ever the weakness I fled ?" 

No, for beyond, far, far is a Purity all-unobstructed! 

Zeus was Zeus — not Man: wrecked by his weakness, I whirl. 

Out of the wreck I rise — past Zeus to the Potency o'er him! 

I — to have hailed him my friend! I — to have clasped her — my 

love! 
Pallid birth of my pain, — where light, where light is, aspiring 
Thither I rise, whilst thou — Zeus, Keep the godship and sink! 

It is a most singular fact that v^ith all Browning's weight 
of learning he did not assimilate the Greek spirit, which 
is essential to the truly cultured classical scholar. Sor- 
dello is a notable example of the way in which his knowledge 
fettered his imagination. At this period he must have been 
familiar with Greek models, yet he chose to disregard them. 
Says Walker: " Sordello is a chaotic and disjointed poem, 
neither epic nor dramatic, nor any proper union of the two. 
The poem exhibits none of that restraint on the part of 
the author, which the Greek poet never forgot to impose 
upon himself. " In the Return of the Druses, however, 
contrary to his frequent lapses in this regard, he consistently 
observes the classic unities of time and place: the time is 
limited to one day, the place throughout the tragedy is the 
Prefect's palace. In its intensity the poem is Greek. It 
is characterized by much learned allusion, or as the irrever- 
ent Steadman says, a "good deal of trite and pedantic 
language. " 

The themes covered by Browning's general knowledge 
are countless and may be only touched upon. Among 
them are history, physiology, medicine, law, linguistics, 
oriental studies and philosophy. He knew history. Pro- 
fessor Gardiner, our best authority on the Stewart period, 
says: ** Browning has seized the real Strafford, the man 
of critical brain, of rapid decision, of tender heart, who 
strove for the good of the nation; without sympathy for 



Golden Winged Days 77 

the generation in which he lived." In King Victor and 
King Charles he sustains his own claim to historic accuracy. 
In Count Grismond appears what may be called Browning's 
medieval temper, since it shows the poet to be so imbued 
with the chivalrous and romantic spirit of the Middle Age. 
Among other historic poems are Holy Cross Day and Love 
Among the Ruins. Of his historical gift Symonds writes: 
'* It is the learning of the scholar which sets up a fragment 
of the broken past as an appropriate or harmonious back- 
ground. " He had an insight of physiology, and he knew 
something of medicine. In the Arab Physician the poet's 
thought illumines a difficult subject. In Paracelsus a. 
reference is made to the medical use of herbs: 
*' I notice on the flowering pool 

Blue flowering burrage, the Aleppo sort 
Aboundeth, very nitrous. " 
He was a careful student of law, specially Italian law. 
In the Ring and the Book, Guido's argument has been pro- 
nounced one of the keenest and most subtle pieces of special 
pleading that has ever been written, in poetry certainly, 
possibly in prose. His tastes were linguistic. His 
knowledge of his own tongue was remarkable. Dawson 
writes: *' His significance as a man of letters is that he has 
enlarged the possibilities of English poetry by adding to it 
a bold, nervous, masculine vocabulary; and by using it as 
it was never used before, save by Shakespeare himself, for 
the analysis and portrayal of human character and motive. " 
And again, of Browning's choice of words, he says: " No 
word is too common for him, no phrase too hackneyed or 
too idiomatic, or tooscholastic, or too bizarre, if it will carry 
his thought home." His familiarity with Italian is illus- 
trated in a piece of blank verse called Cenciaja. The mo- 
tif was taken from an old Italian MS. published by the 



yS Golden Winged Days 

Philobiblon Society. Browning surmises that he may be 
criticised for appropriating Shelley's peculiar subject, so 
he concocts a title, the meaning of which only an adept can 
divine without his assistance. The Cenctaja are lines in 
the nature of a note to Shelley's incomparable Cenci. 
Browning quotes an old Italian proverb and says that the 
^aja is generally an accumulative yet depreciative ter- 
mination, hence 'Cenciaja': a bundle of rags, a trifle. The 
proverb means: " Every poor creature will be pressing 
into the company of his betters." Says Browning: 
" I used it to depreciate the notion that I intended any- 
thing of the kind. " He had a scholar's taste for oriental 
studies. In the Return of the Druses he treats of the Drusian 
religion and strange superstitions; and refers to Allah, the 
sixth calif of Egypt, as the founder of that faith. In 
another Eastern poem the scene is laid in Arabia: it is a 
lament for a lost Arabian steed and is full of oriental color 
and passion. In his famous Eastern poem Ferishtah's 
Fancies there is a strong Hght; but he states clearly that 
he makes no attempt to express Persian thought. ** The 
Persian garment," says one, *'is a disguise, not a habit"; 
and we can readily acknowledge the disguise is complete. 
Who would imagine that behind the Shah Abbas lie Brown- 
ing's own ideas of faith ? or that Mirhab Shah conceals his 
views on the meaning of evil and of pain t There is, how- 
ever a singular charm in the name of one poem, Cherries . 
It is a pretty fancy which sees in the name, gratefulness 
to God for small benefits. He understood philosophy. 
Occasionally he presents other men's systems, as in Rabbi 
Ben Ezra; but almost always when he speculates he reveals 
himself as the philosopher. An appropriate title to his 
works would be: The Burden of Robert Browning to the 
Nineteenth Century. His earliest poems, Pauline and 



Golden Winged Days 79 

Paracelsus, show his attitude toward things, in what direc- 
tion he had set his face — in brief, his philosophy of Hfe. 
His most elaborate exposition of that philosophy is the 
long, labored, discursive speech of the Pope in the Ring 
and the Book. 

Last of all, Browning was of a scientific turn. In 
some respects this part of his work is notable and deserves 
careful attention, since it shows not only the many-sidedness 
of his knowledge, but also the actual relation of poetry to 
science. Caliban, that most singular and marvelous pro- 
duction, viewed from any point, is more than anything else 
a scientific interpretation of the undeveloped ideas of a 
rudimentary human creature. Paracelsus is nothing if 
not scientific. Dawson says the most astonishing thing 
about Paracelsus is the vision of evolution which is found 
in its concluding pages — pages written many years before 
Darwin published the Origin of Species. A few lines from 
Browning will illustrate this comment: 

In the solitary waste strange groups 

Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like. 

Staring together with their eyes on flame — 

God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. 

Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod; 

But spring wind like a dancing psaltress, passes 

Over its breast to waken it: rare verdure 

Buds tenderly upon rough banks.'* 

And then follows one of the finest passages in Browning; the 
description of man's final evolution: 

Thus God dwells in all, 
From life's minute beginnings up at last 
To man the consummation of this scheme 
Of being . . . whose attributes had here and there 
Been scattered o'er the visible world before 



8o Golden Winged Days 

Asking to be combined; dim fragments, meant 
To be united in some wondrous whole; 
Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
Suggesting some one creature, yet to make 
Some point where all these scattered rays should meet 
Convergent in the faculties of man." 

It seems unjust to Browning to end the quotation here; for 
he has not yet exerted his poet's prerogative to scan with 
hopeful eyes the dim future of the race To Browning, 
gracious poet that he is, evolution does not end with the phy- 
sical perfection of man. He looks still beyond to a far no- 
bler perfection, the perfect development of the spirit in man: 

" When all mankind alike is perfected 
Equal in full-bloom powers, then, not till then 
I say begins man's general infancy. 
In completed man begins anew 
A tendency to God ... In man's self arise 
August anticipations, symbols, types. 
Of a dim splendor ever on before 
In that eternal circle life pursues. " 

The accuracy of Browning's knowledge commanded 
the respect of his contemporaries. Whatever rank as a poet 
posterity may accord to him, his wide and deep scholarship 
will doubtless stand unquestioned. He is and will remain 
England's great poetic scholar and her illustrious scholarly 
poet. 



Book III . — Fiction 



PRESENT STATUS OF THE NOVEL 

The modern novel is a vast, luxuriant vegetation. Like 
an exotic it has been rapid in its growth: scarcely a quarter 
of a century having passed since it appeared in its present 
form of living fiction. It springs from a rich soil, finding its 
origin in poetry, in history, and in the drama. For the most 
part the story writers of the past have been largely yarn- 
spinners. The earliest novelists represented, in their fiction, 
to the length of three or four volumes, highly sensational 
circumstances, preposterous conditions, and artificial types 
of character. Later novelists, even the greatest, like Scott 
or Dickens, often violated artistic proportion. Until the 
distinctly modern novel arose the principle of unity seemed 
to be unknown, or if known, unobserved; except possibly 
by a few, of whom Thackeray and George Eliot are the best 
examples. 

The novel to-day(to change the figure) is like a thousand 
little rills purling through all lands. In some climes it often 
moves murky and poisonous; in other countries it frequent- 
ly runs pure and sweet. With the freedom of the press the 
spread of pernicious writing seems inevitable; and fiction, 
the most popular literary form, is an easy channel for its 
distribution. In all countries there is a class of novels not 
only harmful to individuals, but subversive to public mor- 
als. Laws have been enacted to prevent the publishing of 
such narration; but the degree of legitimate restriction being 

81 



82 Golden Winged Days 

debatable, the laws are often impotent. It is not only the 
impure novels which are demoralizing, but that class of 
fiction in which are hidden views attacking the foundations 
of society: the conjugal relation, the claims of reason and 
conscience, and the righteous authority of human govern- 
ment. Due recognition should be given to the fact that 
there is such iniquitous writing; but the evil is partly coun- 
terbalanced by the prevalence, in all countries, of a fiction 
which is clean, wholesome, and attractive. The latter is the 
only form of narration worthy of attention: the fiction which 
is literature. 

The recent novels of Continental Europe, England and 
America are of many distinct varieties; and each variety is 
again differentiated by its own local influences. In almost 
every instance there is the unconscious charm of spontanei- 
ty. The Athenaeum, in a late general review of foreign fic- 
tion, attributes to the novels of Italy, Spain, and Hungary 
marked sign of declension; while from Germany, France 
and Russia (or Paris where Russian books are largely print- 
ed) fiction in point of quality is recognized to be in the as- 
cendant. Making allowance for the exceptions, and for 
that output in every land of deleterious novels, Europe has, 
notwithstanding, a remarkable table of fiction. In foreign 
narration to-day, there is a noticeable freedom from con- 
ventionalism, both in composition and in thought. Of the 
various schools, Germany, so fearless in rationalistic criti- 
cism, is in fiction perhap*» the most conservative. In truth 
were the present novels and the late scholastic literature of 
Germany printed in diflTerent tongues they might well be 
regarded as coming from alien peoples. In science, art, 
belles-lettres y and biblical criticism Germany is radical. In 
poetry and fiction she is home-loving and sentimental. 
The narrative art of Europe finds its apex in Russia and in 



Golden Winged Days 83 

France. As it is more illustrious in those countries than 
it is in other lands, it is also (especially in France) more 
corrupt. Of modern English novels it is difficult to speak. 
There seem to be few living w^riters of fiction who, either 
in brilliancy of mind or in knowledge of the narrative art, 
equal or even compare with Continental models. Mrs. 
Humphrey Ward has closely followed George Eliot, tradi- 
tionally, in public esteem; but the inequality of her work 
renders it only measureably comparable to the finished 
productions of England's greatest novelist. America is 
the natural home of fiction. As a whole, American novels 
are neither poetic, romantic, nor philosophical. But every- 
where they are vital and (more than can be said of foreign 
novels) they are pure and harmless. The characteristic 
of English fiction is purity without brilliancy; the dis- 
tinguishing feature of French fiction is brilliancy without 
purity; but it remains for America to produce a fiction 
which, generally speaking, is at once pure and brilliant. 
The varieties of talent shown by American novelists have 
somewhat dimmed individual lustre. There are so many 
men and women of ability here that necessarily few are 
recognized as world novelists. 

The United States and almost every European country 
furnishes at least one writer of fiction sufficiently great to be 
regarded as of no country, but as one belonging to the 
world. America's exponent of fiction is William Dean 
Howells. He is indeed a consummate artist, and one whom 
his country delights to honor. Tolstoi — expatriated of 
his own — readily becomes a world writer. His place may 
not be checked off in a sentence. A few of his novels were 
better left unwritten. But the man must needs express 
himself wholly — with conscience turned bare to the gaze 
of inquisitive and often uncomprehending eyes. Europe 



84 Golden Winged Days 

has her ranks filled with remarkable novelists; but there 
is one who outstrips all praise. Among the world novelists 
none may quite equal Guy de Maupassant. His inimitable 
prose is thus described by Brander Matthews: '* Guy de 
Maupassant had a Greek sense of form, a Latin power of 
construction, and a French felicity of style. His stories 
are simple, most of them; direct, swift, inevitable, and 
inexorable in their straightforward movement. If art con- 
sists in the suppression of non-essentials, there have been 
few greater artists than Maupassant. He had the abundance 
and ease of the very great artists; and his best stories are 
among the very best stories of any language." The prema- 
ture death of this sovereign writer is greatly to be deplored. 
Novel writing from being a patchwork has become a 
distinct art. While the novels of the past were long, false 
and poorly constructed, the novels of the present are short, 
true to life and artistically correct. There are two kinds 
of modern fiction: the novel and the Short Story. The 
longest novel of the present is brief compared to the most 
curtailed novel of the past. The Short Story is not strictly 
a modern form. It was in existence before the novel; but 
it was a treasure in a barley loaf: its value was not suspected. 
It has recently risen into prominence. The Short Story — 
the most perfect form of fiction — has entered literature; 
and it is even now modifying and vastly improving the 
modern novel. The essential characteristics of literature 
as laid down by Matthew Arnold, Taine, Hazlitt, Stevenson 
and even Bret Harte are applicable to fiction, as one of its 
recognized forms. The concensus of such opinion is that 
literature must have as its factors, diction, rhythm, emotion, 
purity of expression, truth, imagination, characterization, 
suppressions, and precision. All these qualities the best 
fiction of to-day may justly claim to possess. 



Golden Winged Days 85 

The narrative art, though moving forward rapidly, has 
not always advanced nobly. This is partly due to the low 
esteem in which the novelist has been held almost from his 
earliest tentative effort. But slowly there has come about 
a change: a master in narration is regarded at the present 
time as the peer of any artist in whatever province. The 
novelists' promotion to the standing of an artist is com- 
mensurate with the increased consideration given to the 
study of fiction itself. Its recognized importance as a 
literary form is witnessed by the fact that it now commands 
the attention of the best critics: Howells has written a 
volume on Criticism and Fiction, Brander Matthews one 
on Aspects of Ficiton, and Richard Burton another on 
Forces in Fiction. From being read in secret by the idle 
and the vicious the novel has advanced to the dignity of 
pulpit quotation and scholastic acknowledgment. It is 
not unusual for Christian ministers (those of them who 
possess limited power to expound the Scriptures) to find a 
welcome text in the last new novel; and what is more sig- 
nificant still, the curriculum of our colleges is now sufficiently 
enlarged to include within the English course lectures de- 
voted exclusively to the study of fiction. Says Professor 
Matthews: "An increasing attention has been given to 
the history of fiction and to the principles of narrative art. 
In many of the leading universities the modern novel has 
been serving as the subject of lectures and the material for 
private study." 

The present status of fiction may be difficult to deter- 
mine (since we are growing wheat and tares together) but 
there is little doubt that, though the tares are insuperable, 
the wheat is firm, and the general trend is a benign growth 
which is upward and toward the light. 



Book IV. — Drama 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR 

Some one has said: " An imitation of action by action 
is in germ a drama. " It is, however, no part of literary art 
until it assumes a form regulated by literature. Though 
inseparable, the histrionic and the dramatic arts have seemed 
at times almost antagonistic. They are convergent in that 
the actor is dependent upon the talent of the dramatist and 
the dramatist requires an interpreter in the actor; they are 
divergent in that the histrionic art may flourish without the 
aid of the literary drama, and the dramatic art is often im- 
peded by the artificial glamour of mere stage effects. In 
the annals of the drama the histrionic art and the dramatic 
art (though forever united) has each retained its inherent 
features. The art of acting preceded the art of dramatic 
composition. The earliest known origin of personation 
was in India, Egypt, and China; but its highest forms of 
antiquity were Grecian and Roman. From its inception 
in Greece it was a religious worship; and even in Rome it 
had a semi-religious character. The acted drama also 
preceded the literary drama in Europe and in England. 
In its earliest Christian as well as its earliest pagan form 
it had a religious signification. It was used as a means of 
moral instruction, and found its first expression in miracle 
and mystery plays. Almost all nations have a drama; only 
ajvery limited number of nations have a dramatic literature. 
The beginnings of the dramatic art (as distinguished from 
the histrionic art) of all races so far as known are found in 

86 



Golden Winged Days 87 

their lyric and epic poetry. The EngHsh is the only Ger- 
manic people which has been able to transform the medieval 
drama into a permanent dramatic literature. This trans- 
formation, otherwise slow and imperceptible, was quickened 
by the Revival of Learning. During the period of change 
the classics were carefully studied, and Seneca's plays were 
used as models. With this beneficial influence from 
antiquity there was also a contemporary influence not so 
pure: it came from Italy and was a passionate, lurid fire. 
The British spirit, however, was strong enough to prevail 
over both influences, with the result that the imitative works 
of the queen's earlier reign were succeeded by the unsur- 
passed productions of the later Elizabethan period. 

In the history of English dramatic literature the Shake- 
sperian era stands pre-eminent. During its greatest period, 
the drama expressed its highest and its lowest elements. 
Often a playwright soared and swore in the same 
breath. The people possessed a strangely mixed taste. 
Says Green: " The people itself brought its nobleness and 
its vileness to the boards. No stage was ever so human, 
no poetic life so intense. Wild, reckless, defiant of all past 
tradition, of all conventional laws, the English dramatists 
owned no teacher, no source of poetic inspiration but the 
people itself. " Even so early as this there was a clearly 
defined distinction drawn between poets and playwrights. 
The poet's place and the state of poesy were held in general 
esteem, as Jonson in one of his finest passages shows: 

** The state of poesy 

Blest, eternal and most true, divine. 
Set high in spirit with the precious taste 
Of sweet philosophy, which is most 
Crowned with the rich traditions of a soul 
That hates to have her dignity profaned 



88 Golden Winged Days 

With any relish of an earthly thought; 

O then how proud a presence doth she bear ? 

Then is she like herself fit to be seen 

Of none but grave and consecrated eyes/' 
In contrast to the honor given to the poets and to the poetic 
art, was the contumely cast upon the actors, and the re- 
flected discredit which fell to the lot of the dramatist. 
Lodge, a writer of plays (but a man of good ancestry, and 
one who had never trod the boards) speaks of the vocation 
of the play-maker as "sharing the odium attaching to the 
actor." Several agencies may be credited with bringing 
about a change of public opinion with regard to dramatic 
composition. Queen Elizabeth favored the play; the 
"literary authorities began to weigh the endeavors of the 
English dramatists in the balance of respectful criticism"; 
and the more educated and thoughtful public (who shrank 
from vicious and idle pastime) were inclined to uphold in 
the abstract the legitimate claims of both tragedy and come- 
dy. But to the local and peculiar agencies should be added 
a more general influence, or what Green calls "the restless- 
ness and curiosity which characterized the age. " 

The newly aroused poetic impulse took everywhere a 
dramatic shape. In consequence of the intangible but 
unmistakable encouragement which such composition re- 
ceived, a remarkable group of pla}^wrights appeared and 
bore fruitage at this time. Of the lesser poets (any one 
of whom, had he alone flourished, would have brought credit 
to his day) there was an innumerable company: Marlowe, 
Beaumont and Fletcher, Lyly, Sackville, and others. Among 
them there was but one, however, who aside from Shake- 
speare, still stands unrivaled. Ben Jonson, through his 
genius, his individuality, and the surrounding circum- 
stances easily excels his contemporaries, and is thought by 
some to approach even the great dramatist himself. 



Golden Winged Days 89 

Few poets have met with more ardent supporters and 
more implacable detractors than Jonson. Taine — the 
last, one would think, to give him a sympathetic hearing — 
is unequivocal in his appreciation of the poet's manly 
stature and the heroic mould of his verse. The very dignity 
of Jonson is something of an incubus to his productions. 
Says Taine, " He is too much of a writer and moralist, not 
enough of a mimic and actor." Green makes the usual 
charge of pedantry; but concedes to Jonson a certain grace 
and real poetic feeling. He says: **In the breadth of his 
dramatic quality, his range over every kind of poetic excel- 
lence, Jonson was excelled by Shakespeare alone. " It 
remains for Hazlitt to deny Jonson all mead of praise. He 
writes: ** There was nothing spontaneous, no impulse nor 
ease about his genius. It was all forced, up-hill work, 
making a toil of pleasure. " 

In Jonson's lyrics, masks, and pastorals, there is a 
wealth of lightest fancy, gorgeous coloring, and delicate ten- 
derness; but Every Man in his Humour is the work upon 
which his fame largely rests. The story may be told in a 
word: it is made up of variations of the one theme, jealousy. 
The couple who have been chasing each other round, each 
suspecting the other of faithlessness, finally collide in the 
most unexpected manner. Justice Clement turns their 
tradegy into a comedy, by his wise counsel. To the irate 
Master and Mistress Kitely he addresses himself: " I smell 
mischief here, plot and contrivance. However if you will 
step into the next room and talk coolly of the matter, you'll 
find some trick has been played on you. I fear there have 
been jealousies on both parts; and the wags have been 
merry with you. " The story ends, as all good tales should, 
with a moral. Master and Mistress Kitely go off arm in 



90 Golden Winged Days 

arm, to the discountenancing of all the mischief-makers. 
The play is said, by early writers, to act better than it reads. 
Doubtless when galvanized into life by such an actor as 
Shakespeare (who discovered it, brought it out in his own 
theatre and assumed the principal role himself) Every Man 
in his Humour shown with a brilliancy far more histrionic 
than literary. But the characters of the play are wooden, 
having neither vitality nor initiative. It is as a work of 
dramatic art, and not as a play to be acted, that the pro- 
duction continues to claim attention. 

Every Man in his Humour ranks high as literature. 
It has come down to us in two forms. The earlier is given 
in the great quarto of 1601. This edition prints the play 
as it was first staged. The prologue, which is retained in 
both forms, is an attack upon the methods of other play- 
wrights. Jonson acknowledges that he wishes to draw 
attention to faults: 

I mean such errors as you'll all confess 
By laughing at them they deserve no less. " 
The first form in which the play appeared was Italian. 
The unpopularity of the foreign names and places caused 
the poet to alter the drama to better suit the simple tastes 
and the patriotism of the English people. The later Eng- 
lish form of the play was given in folio 1616; and was 
printed as amended by Jonson. The scenes were shifted 
from Italian to English soil: from Florence to London. 
The sturdy familiar characters, with their high-sounding 
titles, were re-clothed in plain English fashion, and re- 
christened with honest English names — much to the satis- 
faction of Jonson's countrymen. Concerning the Angliciz- 
ing of the drama Lamb says: *' I laud Jonson that having 
framed the play in Italian he changed the scenes to England. 
The names of the first edition were Lorenzo, Stephano, etc. 



Golden Winged Days 91 

And say, you reader, does not Master and Mistress Kitely 
read better?" In the later form there lingers only a faint 
allusion to foreign traits. The unchanged reference to 
death by poison is said to be ** almost the only trace of 
Italian manners." 

The drama is a satire. Jonson, in a raging passion 
throughout, fiercely ridicules the follies, affectations, and 
vices of city and court. The play paints "not so much 
human nature as temporary manners; not so much the 
characters of men as their humors." Being directed 
against existing persons and things, with their passing 
the play has lost much of its pith. Many of the 
references are timely hits, and are wholly unintelligible to 
moderns. Such obscure allusions are illumined and become 
interesting only as the customs of the age are made fa- 
miliar to us. 

Among the topics uppermost in the minds of Jonson's 
contemporaries were fencing (a lately revived pastime) the 
use of tobacco (a new importation) astrology and physic 
(misunderstood but widely affected sciences) and poesy 
(a much abused art). Against all of these idiosyncracies 
of the day, Jonson turned the shafts of his keenest ridicule. 

Fencingwhich was practiced among the Romans both on 
and off the stage, was revived in England during the Eliza- 
bethan age. Its return was met with favor by the cox- 
combs; and from being an art it became a fashionable 
foible. The various fencing schools had certain rules 
adopted from Italy, which later during the reign of Chas. II 
were discarded for the more novel rules of France. The 
Italian rules, however, were the ones which prevailed en- 
tirely during Jonson's time. They are also the ones enum- 
erated by Shakespeare and other poets of the period. Jon- 
son makes the boasting Brobadil a typical coward; and by 
giving him the use of the sword, the poet causes the art of 



92 Golden Winged Days 

fencing to appear especially absurd. Brobadil was of 
opinion that skill in fencing would save "three parts of the 
queen's yearly charge in holding war against what enemy 
soever. " Questioned as to how this could be done he replies : 
I would select nineteen gentlemen of good spirit, strong 
and able constitution. And I would teach these nineteen 
the special rules of your punto, your reverse^ your staccato, 
your imbroccatto, your passada, your montanto, till they 
could all play as well as myself. This done, say the enemy 
were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into 
the field and challenge twenty of the enemy. We would 
kill them; challenge twenty more, kill them; challenge 
twenty more, kill them. Challenge twenty more, kill them: 
in two hundred days kill them all up." In this fancy 
sketch of fencing Brobadil's courage is better than his 
arithmetic. 

Authorities differ as to the courtier who intro- 
duced tobacco into England. Foreigners attribute its 
importation to Sir Francis Drake; but some of the poets 
give the doubtful honor to Sir Walter Raleigh. Discussion 
as to its merits and demerits ran rife. King James opposed 
its introduction. The poets, speaking for the people, re- 
ceived it favorably. So important was the subject con- 
sidered that the question of the expediency of sanctioning 
the traffic was publicly argued at Oxford; and the king sat 
in solemn state as moderator. The monarch's distaste 
for ''the Indian weed" was emphasized by his Counterblast 
of Tobacco, in which he says: ** Smoke becomes a kitchen 
far better than a dining chamber." And he follows his pub- 
licly expressed opinion by inaugurating a tobacco tax. 
Shakespeare is the only dramatic writer of the age of James 
who does not condescend to notice nicotine. All the other 
poets abound in allusions to it. Spencer, in the Faerie 
Queen, has a reference which is construed by some to be a 
compliment to Sir Walter Raleigh, as its transporter: 



Golden Winged Days 93 

" There, whether it divine tobacco were 
Or panachaea, etc. " 

Jonson refers to it many times. His characters discuss 
its use, pro and con. Brobadil is eloquent in its praise: 
** By Hercules, I do hold it and affirm it before any prince 
in Europe to be the most sovereign and precious weed that 
ever the earth tendered to the use of man." And poor old 
Cobb, who for venturing to have an opinion averse to its 
use was promptly beaten by Brobadil, says: " Odds me, 
I marvel what pleasure or felicity they have in taking their 
roguish tobacco. It's good for nothing but to choke a man, 
and fill him full of smoke and embers." 

Among the fashionable foibles of the time was the ex- 
ploitation of astrology and physic. Much credence was 
given to astrology, a perverted science which is little less than 
a superstition. It relates to the foretelling of human events, 
by the position of the heavenly bodies. Three kinds were rec- 
ognized: horary, judicial, and natural. Judicial astrology is 
the only kind against the practice of which, laws (even in 
ancient times) were enacted. According to the Jewish and 
Roman law, its exercise implied idolatry and high treason; 
and met with severe penalties. With the beginnings of exact 
science astrology was brought into merited disfavor, and 
finally relegated to the place of kindred delusions. Medical 
science began in Homeric Greece, was disbursed through 
Alexandria, continued through Arabia and Rome, until the 
founding of the School of Salerno. In the monasteries 
ancient medical works were preserved in Latin. They 
were a mixture of superstition, magic, and ancient science. 
In medical history there is no real break. A continuous 
thread of learning and practice connects the last period of 
Roman medicine with the beginnings of science in the 



94 Golden Winged Days 

Middle Age. The Revival of Learning gave a new impluse 
to physic; and the study of botany was accelerated by 
the variety of new plants brought from America. Such 
were the beginnings of medicine, the noblest and chief- 
est of modern sciences. In Jonson's time physic and 
astrology were equally regarded, and often confused by 
people and by poets. In his Account of Diseases and 
Casualties, 1632, Grant writes: ** Apoplex and meagrim, 
seventeen; planet-struck, thirteen, etc." The expres- 
sion, 'planet-struck' as commonly used by the people 
may mean the influence credited to the stars by the astrolo- 
gers, or it may mean any sudden attack for which the phy- 
sicians could then find no name. Jonson's use of the term, 
however, had but one import: to throw ridicule upon the 
claims of astrology. Brobadil, the warrior coming out 
worsted in one of his encounters, cries: **I never sustained 
the like disgrace, by heaven! Sir I was struck with a planet 
thence; for I had no power to touch my weapon." To 
which Knowel replies: **Ay, like enough. I have heard of 
many that have been beaten under a planet. Go get you 
to a surgeon." According to the old physicians the four 
'humours' in man were blood, choler, phlegm, and melan- 
choly. Says Trench: '*The words good-humour, bad- 
humour, humerous and the like rest altogether on a now 
exploded but very old and widely extended theory of medi- 
cine, according to which there were four principal moistures 
or humours in the natural body, on the due proportion and 
combination of which the disposition of body and mind 
depended. " The poets availed themselves of this fanciful 
conception which so conveniently accounted for the varia- 
bility of the human disposition. Even Milton was a dupe 
to the popular notion, which lasted till long after his time. 
He says: 



Golden Winged Days 95 

** Believe not these suggestions, which proceed 
From anguish of the mind and humours black 
That mingle with the fancy.'* 
Jonson's plays reflects the supposed humours of men. Six 
varieties of disposition are shown — though several of them 
are mere deferentiations of the four primal humours. These 
changeful moods appear in the characters of Cobb, Clem- 
ent, Master Matthew, Downright, Brobadil, and Wellbred. 

Cohb : " Nay, I have my rheum. And I can be angry 
as well as another. " 

Wellhred: " Justice Clement will commit a man for 
anything if it come in the way of his humour. " 

Matthew: '* I wrote the rime in a humour. " 

Wellbred : " The quarrel is one of my brother's 
ancient humours." 

Brobadil: *' It was opposite my humour, alas soon 
tried." 

Wellbred : ** Oh, strange humour, my breath hath 
poisoned Kitely. " 

The Elizabethan era was marked by two kinds of me- 
trical composition: the foolish rhymes of flippant youth, and 
the serious verse of great poets. Jonson was especially 
sensitive to the prevalence of the rhyming habit; for he was 
of all poets most conscientious and sincere. Satire (his 
weapon of attack against every evil) was sharpened anew 
for an onslaught on this growing literary vice. He makes 
the father of one of those callow youths say: 

Knowel : ** Could I by any practice wean the boy 



96 Golden Winged Days 

From one vain course of study he affects! 
Dreaming on naught but idle poetry — 
That fruitless and unprofitable art, 
Good unto none but least to the professors. *' 
And again in referring to the versifiers he causes the old 
Justice to say: 

Clement: "These paper-peddlers, these ink-dabblers! 
They cannot expect reprehension or re- 
proach — 
They have it in the fact. " 
In contradistinction to the derision which Jonson casts on 
mere rhyming, appears in the quarto this fine eulogy upon 
the art of poetry. 

*' That this infected age 

Should set no difference twixt these empty spirits 

And a true poet — than which reverenced name 

Nothing can more adorn humanity. '* 

Jonson has been accused of imitation. The wide range 
of his originality and genius should refute the charge. But 
such is the penalty paid for his extreme classicism: a love of 
the ancient models so unrestrained that his own composi- 
tion is often hidden neath a weight of citation, or deflected 
by the classic turn which he gives his sentences. His ac- 
knowledged masters are Terence and Plautus; and there 
are indications of a resemblance to many other ancient 
writers. Jonson may have borrowed somewhat from the 
Adelphi of Terence in the fine passage beginning: 

There is a way of winning more by love." 
The quarto contains only two lines, where eight are found 
in the later editions. 

*' When I was young, etc.'* 
has special reference to lines in Juvenal; and in the entire 
soliloquy, Satire XIV is largely drawn upon for the poet's 



Golden Winged Days 97 

inspiration. Other passages occur in which similarity is 
noticed to the thoughts of Aristotle and to those of Florus. 
Most of them may be explained by unconscious influence. 
Jonson is also said by some to imitate Shakespeare. It is 
an unworthy suggestion. The men were wholly unlike : the 
plodding common sense of the one being in every way dis- 
similar to the surpassing inspiration of the other. 

The drama is carefully constructed. The unities of 
time and place (a fact of considerable satisfaction to the 
author himself) are scrupulously observed. The action is 
limited to one day and the place to one neighborhood. The 
play upon its appearance, immediately raised Jonson to the 
rank of one of the greatest dramatists of his age; and judged 
by Every Man in his Humour, that proud place he still con- 
tinues to hold. 

ANCIENT AND MODERN DRAMA COMPARED 

The drama, according to Woodbridge, is "the presen- 
tation of an action or series of actions expressed directly by 
means of speech and gesture." Where other composition 
is concerned more or less with the sequence of events, the 
drama relates wholly to cause and effect. Throughout its 
changes — which have been fewer than those of any kindred 
branch of Hterature — it has been distinguished from all 
other helle-lettres by its form, its material, its viewpoint, 
and its themes. 

Dramatic form, according to the exposition of it by the 
Greek writers down to the authorities of the present day, 
has remained comparatively fixed. The scenic art origi- 
nated in the Greek recitation, a worship of praise to the gods. 
The ceremonies were made a regular feature of the Bacchic 
holiday. The spectacle, being one to which the whole pop- 
ulation were invited, soon spread over Greece; and the Attic 
drama became a national institution. At first the scenery 



98 Golden Winged Days 

was simple, the acting massive, and the recitation a half chant 
But from the time the theory of the drama began to engage 
the attention of the philosophers, its advance was rapid and 
assured. Aristotle in his Poetics laid down certain laws 
which have not only governed the construction of the drama, 
but have been the basis of all subsequent technical systems. 
** The Aristotelian law,'* says Whitney, "demanded that 
nothing should be admitted irrelevant to the simple plot; 
and that there should be no shifting of the scenes. " The 
principles concerning the unities were more and more 
closely adhered to until in the time of Corneille they be- 
came iron-clad. The French poet taught that the action of 
every play should be within the walls of a certain city, the 
time within twenty-four hours, and the place limited to such 
localities as a man could go to and from in a day. Moderns 
are not so stringent concerning form. Says Ward: ** The 
so-called unities of time and place are purely fictitious prin- 
ciples to either of which it may be convenient to adhere in 
order to make the unity of the action more perceptible; and 
either of which may with equal propriety be disregarded in 
order to give the action probability. " Modern Drama is 
the child of Ancient Drama and Romance (or Medieval 
Story). The union of the two was felicitous: Romance 
broke down absolute scenic unity — the scope of the ancient 
drama; and Ancient Drama gave to modern plays the strict 
dramatic form necessary to their artistic completion. Mod- 
ern Drama has added nothing new to the classic form, but 
has considerably diversified it. Recent plays have, however, 
been moulded more by the Greek dramatists than by the 
old English writers. The modern plays of the French are 
built largely upon the models of Seneca. All other recent 
dramas are wholly difl^erent, especially those built upon the 
models of Shakespeare. Speaking generally the modern 



Golden Winged Days gg 

drama has a character intermediate between the French 
seventeenth century and the EngHsh EUzabethan and Stewart 
drama. Says Woodbridge: "The best modern work 
combines the complexity and variety of the best EngHsh 
manner with the more careful form of the French." 

Dramatic material has varied with the ages; but in all 
periods it has included definite types of people and certain 
varieties of circumstances. In the absense of such indi- 
viduals the play will lack clearness. The essential person- 
ages are the hero, the explanatory and supplementary char- 
acters. The value of the hero is comparative and has con- 
tinually changed. In ancient drama the importance of the 
hero is everywhere manifest, and all other characters are 
made subordinate to him. Since opportunities for great 
deeds came solely to the eminent, the Greek regarded only 
princes, and esteemed the residue of mankind collectively, or 
as it were en masse. The ancients had but one type of hero. 
Says Aristotle: " He must be renowned and prosperous and 
of illustrious family. " In later drama th^ hero is less in evi- 
dence; and the modern playwright sometimes even dispenses 
with him altogether. Until of late the intriguer has always 
had a place. But more important still have been the ex- 
planatory personages: the Chorus and the confidential 
friend. The Chorus explained the situation to the ancients; 
and the friend, taken from Seneca, lived for centuries to tell 
the story. The playwrights easily swept aside the Chorus. 
They have also tried for ages to banish the confidential 
friend; but modern writers who, like Ibsen, have scorned 
him, have suflFered in the obscurity of their plays. There are 
likewise personages who have always been regarded as unfit 
for dramatic usage. Feeling, so essential in every play, is 
futile if there is no intelligence through which it may be in- 
terpreted. Expression impHes culture; and there must be 

LOfC. 



100 Golden Winged Days 

sufficient culture in the dramatis personae to reveal emotion. 
The anguish of the stupid and the torture of the ignorant 
are painful to witness; but the unfortunate subjects in their 
dumb suffering are not suitable persons to be used as material 
by the dramatist. Without incidents sufficiently dramatic 
the play will drag. The laws controlling the choice of cir- 
cumstances, though few and negative, are inviolable. They 
indicate more the occurrences which are not available to the 
playwright rather than those which are suitable for his use. 
Accidents in a play are a sign of decay and melodrama. 
As speechless pain is a pitiful spectacle, so also is an acci- 
dent; but the circumstances in each instance are unwar- 
ranted material. 

The dramatic viewpoint has continually and steadily 
changed. The whole drama of Greece and Rome consisted 
of a single development. Underneath all classic thought 
lay the idea of a tragic, resistless Fate. Grecian drama 
had largely to do with one hero: his conflicts and his efforts 
to overcome an adverse Fate. Says Freytag: *' The an- 
cients dispensed with a natural world order and with the in- 
terlinking of events." Their dramatic viewpoint taking 
cognizance only of man's relation to Destiny, was based en- 
tirely on a struggle with outward circumstances. This 
aspect prevailed until the time of Euripides. Then came the 
long tract of the dark ages. The Latin and the Greek plays, 
no longer popular, passed to the scholars in the monasteries. 
Fiction in prose and in verse was scattered by wandering 
minstrels. Thus Drama and Story existed separately till 
nearly the close of the medieval period, when there appeared 
a sort of religious ceremonial, the Miracle Play. With the 
Renaissance ancient literature was once more opened up, 
and public pageants took a classical form. Under the com- 
bined influence of ancient and medieval story, the Moralities 



Golden Winged Days loi 

,'( 
gradually merged into the Elizabethan; and thus to Shake- 
speare and the new laws and ideals which he revealed. 
Shakespeare taught that instead of each act being complete 
in itself, the play is a network of actions — a complex of 
moods. And he was the first to emphasize in his tragedies 
the struggle of the soul. Since Shakespeare's time the slow 
decline of aristocracy and the rapid rise of democracy have 
wrought vast transformations in society. The democratic 
idea brought with it a conception of the importance not of 
the station but of the man. The moderns are freer men 
than the ancients. As one writer says: "Vital questions 
have been reconsidered to the extent in later days of a revo- 
lution in public opinion." Says Woodbridge: " The 
spiritual and moral nature of man, the relation of the indivi- 
dual to he race and the highest forces of life, the idea of 
freedom and the conception of the Divine Being — all these 
things have undergone great changes." With the muta- 
tion in social conditions has come a gradually altered dra- 
matic viewpoint. We of today recognize no other Fate 
than such as rises from our own acts. Man is overtaken 
by no Destiny save that which is the natural sequence of 
his own thought and conduct. The modern dramatic 
viewpoint is based upon a struggle within; and modern 
drama lies in the conflict of man — not with cruel outward 
circumstances — but of man with untamed inward forces. 

The themes of the ancient drama were of a profoundly 
sacred and intellectual nature. This came about naturally, 
since with the Greeks the dama was a vehicle of thought 
and the Chorus lent itself to meditation. The themes, 
though varied, were largly those relating to mythology and 
such subjects as could be used in the celebration of religious 
and political festivals. Greek tragedy was the worship of 
Destiny; and the dramatis personae were of importance 



102 Golden Winged Days 

only in their relation to that Power. A large number of 
themes circled around Apollo. Says Moulton: ''Physical 
brightness is his, and the sun's rays are arrows from his 
bow. " The worship of brightness took two forms : the light 
versus the shade, and the ascension of youth in contrast to 
the descension of age. The Bacchanals and subjects relating 
to family life were also frequently used. Other themes 
were the Horrors, natural and supernatural. Cruel imagin- 
ings had a prominent place in classic thought. There were 
however as many poetical as there were base conceptions. 
The Greeks observed hospitality as a form of worship; and 
its dignity was celebrated in the rich Chorus. Also the re- 
pression of grief appeared among their themes, and a wide 
variety of other subjects such as women, social pleasures, 
nature, etc. Pre-eminently among modern themes are 
those relating to soul struggle, as found in all of Shake- 
speare's tragedies to begin with; and coming down to our 
own time, in many of Browning's and a few of Tennyson's 
plays. Some modern themes treat of man's relation to God 
and to his fellow-men; and occasionally of his aspiration to 
bear a part in world betterment. These subjects are how- 
ever largely limited to the closet drama. It is often asserted 
that the play came to an end in England in 1616; and in 
Germany in 1832. However sweeping such a statement 
may be, it is undoubtedly true that modern drama is of un- 
certain tone and of questioning spirit. The plays which 
hold the boards are spectacles, problem plays, and dramas 
of introspection. The stage has for centuries been utilized 
for purposes of amusement only. The histrionic art to the 
exclusion of the dramatic art has prevailed. As the natural 
result of the decline of the dramatic art many modern themes 
are those which relate to the abnormalities and sickness of 
society and to the ultra radical conduct and neurasthenia 



Golden Winged Days 103 

of individuals. Some critics are hopeful as to the vitality 
of the dramatic art. Says Woodbridge: " One of the signs 
of the life of the drama is that it is changing. Just as w^e 
cannot arrive at the truest judgment if we leave out the 
Greeks, so v^e cannot if we ignore our own contemporaries." 
Everything connected with the dramaturgic art (ex- 
cept the fixed form of the play which has varied rather than 
altered) is different in the ancient and in the modern periods: 
the life aspect, the heroic type, the governing purpose, and 
the conception of tragic interest. Ancient drama 
condemned Age as repellent and superfluous, and glorified 
youth as all of life. Modern drama reveres Age as the em- 
bodiment of wisdom, and apologizes for youth as the per- 
sonification of folly. The ancients had but one type of hero, 
usually a king and powerful; the moderns choose their heroes 
from all sorts and conditions of men. Says a playwright 
to-day:*' Station and circumstance are both immaterial.'* 
In ancient drama the governing purpose was Destiny; in 
modern plays it is free-will. Ancient tragic interest 
centered in man's powers to conquer natural calamities, 
modern tragic interest lies in man's strength to overcome 
evil within. Such then have been the changes in the 
drama as a whole: its development into a less rigid form; 
its leveling down of the one and leveling up of the many; 
its recognition not so much of the power of nature and the 
control of circumstances as of the invincibility of human 
force and intelligence. The result of all these general 
changes may be defined as a revolt from faith in casualty to 
belief in self. The drama has lost irretrievably in thought, 
knowledge, and contemplation; it has gained immeasurably 
in freedom, originality, and versatility. 



104 Golden Winged Days 

JONES' RENAISSANCE OF THE ENGLISH 

DRAMA 

Henry Arthur Jones, dramatic author, born Grand- 
borough, Buckinghamshire, Sept. 28th, 1851, son of Syl- 
vanus Jones, farmer; educated at Winston, Buckingham- 
shire." So runs a brief biographical note concerning the 
author of the Renaissance of the English Drama. As to the 
character of Mr. Jones the only data from which one may 
form an opinion are at the best indirect. Nor does person- 
ality lie in the province of criticism. But individuality may; 
and an author's primal characteristics as a v^riter are a 
legitimate topic of interest. The only available means of 
becoming acquainted with this author's temperamental 
qualities seem to be through the unconscious revelations of 
himself which appear in his book. It is evident that he is 
plainspoken, for he says in the preface under review that his 
friends ''advise him to hold his tongue on the subject of the 
drama. " He is also independent, for he at once talks all the 
harder on the forbidded theme. Mr. Jones' instinct is that 
of a playwright; but as a matter of principle he steps aside 
to explain his theories of dramatic art. Referring to the 
Nemesis of carping friends he says: *' I can truly say that to 
nobody have these addresses and papers been a source of 
such endless vexation, irritation and weariness as to myself; 
whom they have continually plagued and interrupted in the 
most delightful task of writing plays. " Similarly, in another 
place, is caught a glimpse of Mr. Jones' mental poise. He 
says, ''I am accused of sourmindedness, churlishness, and 
illiberality. " And proceeds to deny that he has ever been 
acrimonious toward anything except the things which de- 
grade. To these, he says *'I have indeed been venomous; 
but never to mere fun and nonsense." And again occurs 



Golden Winged Days 105 

a delicate personal reference in this: " I have been accused 
of discontent with my actors, my managers, audiences, and 
critics; and of rebellion against them. There is a great dif- 
ference between discontent with the position of one's art, 
and discontent with one's own personal status in it. " All 
men are more or less influenced by their ideals; and Mr. 
Jones seems in an especial way to feel the impress of Matthew 
Arnold and of Ruskin upon his moral sense. Not that he is 
in anyway their disciple, but that he would wear their man- 
tles in turn of critic and of master. A light is thrown upon 
this pedagogical phase of his character by a conversation 
which he reports having heard in a railway carriage: " Ah, 
who wrote that play?" said one. " That man, Henry 
Arthur Jones," replied his neighbor. " I hate that fellow," 
said the other, " He's always educating people." 

Mr. Jones has written voluminously. Ever since he 
essayed dramatic composition in 1879 he has averaged one 
work each year. From his own references to his plays, it 
appears that many of them have been very successfully 
staged, often enjoying long runs in the leading London 
theatres, and having in their casts eminent actors. He 
frankly confesses that for some time he wrote what he re- 
gards as concessions to the pubHc taste; but having achieved 
independence, he set about writing plays to please himself, 
and products of art which were in harmony with his own 
conception of the drama. After writing those literary plays 
the next step was to educate the public to a just appreciation 
of them. Mr. Jones is doubtless an earnest and honest man, 
and has deeply at heart not only the renaissance of the En- 
glish drama, by a total extermination of the vapid and Phil- 
istine plays of the recent past, but a profound desire to build 
up and firmly establish a national school of British drama 
even as there is (so he thinks) an Enghsh school of music 



io6 Golden Winged Days 

and painting. To this end, therefore, he bent all 
his energies: he lectured, he wrote, he talked, he even scold- 
ed on occasion. And after he had spent some time diffusing 
his views throughout all England, he collected the various 
essays and addresses and published them between two covers 
in the form of a volume. 

In any adequate review of a book, the first considera- 
tion is its arrangement and style; and the second, its themes 
and subject matter. The Renaissance of the English Drama 
is composed of essays and lectures addressed, as Mr. Jones 
says, ** to widely different audiences and classes." Here are 
articles written for magazines from the Nineteenth Century to 
the Dramatic Mirror; from the New Review to To-day. The 
papers are arranged in chronological order as they were 
printed. There are addresses delivered to audiences from 
the National Sunday League to the Playgoer's Club; from 
the London College to the public in a common hall at Brad- 
ford. The lectures appear in the order in which they were 
presented. At the end of the book, there is a sort of pot 
pouri made up of fragments and extracts and prefaces and 
jottings. Mr. Jones says in explanation: ** Where there are 
apparent contradictions it will I think be found on examina- 
tion, that they are different and mutually reconciling aspects 
of the same truths.'* The dates of the original publication 
and delivery of these articles and addresses run from 1883-93. 

Whatever may be said of Mr. Jones as a writer of plays, 
his style as a writer of serious prose is somewhat infelicitous. 
The word he brings is needed; and it is one which requires 
a sincere and enthusiastic advocate. All this the cause finds 
in Henry Arthur Jones. What then is wanting ? Nothing 
so much, on the part of this writer, as conscientious care in 
the framing of his message. In one or two instances there 



Golden Winged Days 107 

are fine contributions to literature in the language which h e 
uses to elucidate his teaching. But in the main, the chief 
characteristics of his style (as shown in this particular work) 
are a tendency to repetition and imitation. | Both defects 
might easily have been remedied. It is a mistake for an 
author to collect everything he has written upon one theme, 
when years have intervened between his utterances, and 
hope to produce a valuable work. It may be done; but it 
can be done only by the closest and most exact revision; ex- 
punging whole pages if the same thoughts have been ex- 
pressed in a different essay. This revision the Renaissance 
certainly never received, and were it not for one's conviction 
that Mr. Jones had a desire to educate the people to higher 
dramatic standards, one would almost feel assured that the 
writer had intentionally tried to give his book the substan- 
tial appearance of an authoritative work. Mr. Jones does 
not lack originality of style; but there are, in many places, a 
strained imitation of others. The pedagogical manner of 
addressing his audiences, above referred to, as well as the 
constant use of the acknowledged tenets of Ruskin is a 
reminder on many pages of that master. It is, however, a 
far cry: for Ruskin is a poet as well as a critic. Mr. 
Jones is capable, however, of using a very excellent form of 
expression. Perhaps the two extremes may be best illus- 
trated by two quotations. The following single sentence is 
a specimen of Mr. Jones' prose style at its worst: ** Nothing 
concerns us so much as our own lives, and there is no art so 
searching, so sympathetic, so consoling, so unusual in its 
appeal, so flexible in its aim, so gorgeous in its setting, so 
far-reaching and so helpful in its ministry to the human 
spirit, so various in its sources of pleasure, so gigantic in its 
possibilities, as this art of Shakespeare, this art of compact 
literature, of painting and of sculpture. " A really delightful 



io8 Golden Winged Days 

bit of reading is found in an essay called the Playwright* s 
Grumble. It is headed by a quotation from Ruskin; and in 
its coloring the opening page reflects the Ruskin tint. Here it 
is : ** From my study windows the hillside slopes down a quar- 
ter of a mile to one of the prettiest and most old-fashioned 
of Buckinghamshire villages. The red tiled roofs, subdued by 
lichen, just overlook the orchard trees, or throw up a bright- 
ish red chimney here and there where the branches hang low 
enough to give them a peep, or half or wholly hide amongst 
the tall spreading elms. The clean blue smoke lazily smears 
the deep masses of dark green foliage. The noble church- 
tower with its *never-sere' garland of ivy rises four-square 
and dominant above the irregular housetops, commanding 
them with its heavenward purpose as the precepts of its re- 
ligion command the waywardness and fickleness of human 
life. Haystacks and cornstacks dot the shorn fields. All 
through the year men are pursuing their healthy primal 
tasks of tilHng and sowing and reaping; those blessed occu- 
pations that, as Keats says. Deity delights to ease its heart 
of love in holding peaceful sway over." This pretty de- 
scription was originally all in one sentence. I have taken 
the liberty to divide it into five. 

As far as there is correlation of thought in the 
Renaissance, it is found in the continuous exposition which 
Mr. Jones makes of his theory of the drama. In the preface 
the writer's views upon the scenic art are very clearly laid 
down. He says: *' Three things I have fought for during 
the last ten years. First I have fought for the distinction 
between the art of the drama on the one hand, and popular 
amusement on the other. Second I have fought for the 
freedom of the modern dramatist: freedom of search, phrase 
and treatment. Third I have fought for sanity and whole- 
someness, largeness and breadth of view. " Mr. Jones' 



Golden Winged Days 109 

conceptions of the drama are of the highest. He will con- 
sider the art only as it is exemplified in the work of the 
world's masters. And everywhere he strives to induce 
others to accept the same standard. He reverts often to 
Shakespeare, who of course is his ideal. Speaking of the 
dignity of his theme he says: " There is in the drama an 
immense power of inculcating a wide knowledge of life.'* 
And again: *' The greatest dramas concern themselves about 
the greatest and most central truths." Scattered here and 
there throughout the book are many allusions to the drama 
of the past, criticisms of the drama of the present and pro- 
phecies concerning the drama of the future. There are 
also a few pages devoted to the technique of dramatic con- 
struction; and there are entire essays given to the drama in 
its relation to other arts, more especially to that of literature. 
Writing of the scenic art in the past he says: *' A generation 
ago a portion of every playhouse was set aside for social 
Pariahs. And even Macready interspersed songs between 
acts to please the buffoonery of his time. Twenty years ago 
there was no question of a difference between art and amuse- 
ment: the drama was regarded as simply an entertainment. 
Ten years ago it seemed almost hopeless to look for any 
change in the public taste as would allow sincere treatment 
and representation of life on the stage or in the success of 
any play not addressed to a crowd seeking amusement on 
the lowest and easiest terms." However, a little light ap- 
pears in the East; and he continues more hopefully: "But 
I perceive amongst playgoers a growing dissatisfaction with 
the stale devices of the theatre; and a growing disposition 
to welcome a less trivial form of English drama." In the 
opinion of Mr. Jones the present drama has not only to 
overcome the false taste of the past, but — and it seems to 
him even a greater evil — the effects of modern realism. 



no Golden Winged Days 

With all his might he strives to destroy what he calls "the 
cramping and deadening influence of modern pessimistic 
realism: its littleness, its ugliness, its narrowness, its paro- 
chialisms. '* In something of a spirit of sadness he remarks : 
" The Victorian drama bears no such relation to the Vic- 
torian literature as the Elizabethan drama bears to the 
Elizabethan literature. But," he adds with renewed as- 
surance, ** never since the days of Elizabeth has the En- 
glish drama had such a chance of establishing itself as a 
national art and as a great power in our national life as it 
has to-day. " Lest he should become too sanguine he re- 
minds himself that "at present it is only a tendency, a symp- 
tom, a foreshadowing. It is popular with the masses as a 
spectacle; but it has not won a position for itself as an art." 
Then he reaches the goal of his argument — the real pur- 
pose of his propaganda: " The English theatre must be 
made a national art with a definite literary and intellectual 
basis." His watchword thenceforward is the applause of 
Matthew Arnold, who exclaimed to him " The theatre is 
the thing. Organize the theatre!" To this end Mr. Jones 
seems to have laboured indefatigably. Owning to the grad- 
ual change which he thinks has taken place both in the in- 
tellectuality of audiences and in their mental attitude toward 
the play, he lays down principles upon which alone a school 
of modern English drama may be founded. He says: "If 
the English drama is to live, it must draw its nourishment 
from the spiritual and intellectual forces of the nation. We 
are on the threshold of not merely an era of magnificent 
spectacular and archaeological revivals, but a living, breath- 
ing modern drama." And he thus concludes: " First, art 
and entertainment are two utterly different things. Second, 
art pleasure is altogether greater and higher than amuse- 
ment pleasure. Third, it is worth while to establish a mod- 



Golden Winged Days ill 

ern national drama on a national basis." In the brief 
references which Mr. Jones makes to the technique of the 
drama, as for all portions of his art, he is an enthusiast. He 
says: " The mere technique of the modern English play is 
as fine as the deftest goldsmith's work.'* His discursive 
argument for a national theatre occupies the greater part of 
this work. But an essential portion of the book is that 
which treats of the relation of the dramatic art to religion, 
science, education, painting, and most of all to literature. 
These phases of the subject are all, save literature, touched 
upon very lightly. Mr. Jones esteems each to have its place 
of affiliation with the supreme art: the drama. Literature 
is the bedrock for the upbuilding of a national dramatic 
school; and the remainder of his book is largely a plea for 
the development of a dramatic literature. *' If I were 
asked," he writes, "to name two cardinal tests for discover- 
ing the merits of any play I would suggest those of charac- 
ter painting and literature." And again he reiterates: 
The true test of a play is not only will it act, but will it 
act and read. Literature is the chief quality. Character 
drawing is valuable and permanent only when it is embodied 
in language of lasting beauty." And then as if in appeal, 
he says: " The modern stage has not received its due share 
of recruits from the greatest writers of the age. The highest 
literary judgment of the time has ruled modern acted drama 
outside literature altogether." For Mr. Jones' last word 
on a theme which his very earnestness ennobles, we have 
this: '' The influence most needed on the stage to-day is an 
influence akin to that which Wordsworth brought into En- 
glish poetry at the beginning of the century: the influence of 
naturalness, simplicity, thoughtfulness, sincerity, devotion to 
nature and to truth. The advent of his spirit, his love of 
the sanctities of life would work as great a reformation on the 
stage as the man himself eflPected in poetry. " 



Book V. India. — Old and New 

LITERATURE OF INDIA 
The history of India is a labyrinth through whose in- 
tricate paths few, even, of the greatest scholars, are able to 
tread. But the course of Indian literature may be far more 
easily followed. Owing to racial antiquity and the altera- 
tion and transmission of MSS. it is not possible to fix the 
periods in which all the various literary forms have flourish- 
ed; but approximate dates may be given to those epochs 
which are the most illustrious. About 2000 B. C. tribes of 
warrior heroes came down through the bleak mountain pas- 
ses and overran all India. The coming down of the Aryans 
among the dark-skinned natives was the beginning of the 
literary life of India. Generally speaking that literary life 
is divided into two great ages: the Vedic Period and the 
Classic Period. The entire body of Hindu writings is more 
or less religious; and the distinction between the literature 
of the two periods is one of degree rather than of nature: 
the Vedic writings are intensely and wholly religious, the 
Classic writings are only tinged as it were with 
the devotional spirit. The Vedic Period includes literature 
which belongs to the earliest history of the race; the Classic 
Period presents Hindu literature in the highest develop- 
ment it has known. 

When the fair invaders came down into India they 
sang praises to their gods that their journey was ended 
and that they had been victorious over their enemies. 
These devotional writings are called the Vedas and 
are sacred to the Hindu, since they are the foundation 
of his religious faith. The Brahmin teachings were handed 
down orally through many centuries. Then they were 
written in the Sanscrit tongue. The Vedas (a word meaning 

112 



Golden Winged Days 113 

sacred knowledge) are divided into four books: Hymns, 
Chants, Prayers, and Artharvan Lore. The oldest and 
greatest Hymns in the sacred books are called the Rig- Veda. 
This is a venerable work, and the fountain head of Vedic 
literature. The Hymns are addressed to various gods; 
but occasionally there seems to be sung the praises of one 
only God. The Rig- Veda is filled with startHng contrasts. 
Amidst much that is unquotable we find this beautiful hymn: 

To The Golden Child 

**In the beginning there arose a golden child 
He was the one born Lord of all that is. 
He established the earth and the sky: 
The God to whom we offer sacrifice. 

He who gives life, he who gives strength; 

Whose command the bright gods revere. 

Whose shadow is immortality, whose shadow is death: 

The God to whom we offer sacrifice. 

He who by his might looked even over the water- 
clouds — 
The clouds which gave strength and lit the sacrifice. 
He who alone is God above all gods: 
The God to whom we offer sacrifice. " 

And again occurs this lovely song: 

To The Dawn 

"She shines upon us like a young wife rousing every living 
being to go to his work. 



114 Golden Winged Days 

She rose up, spreading far and wide and moving every- 
where. 
She grew in brightness wearing her brilliant garment. 
The leader of the day, she shown lovely to behold. " 

In the sacred books the fourth Veda is sometimes omitted. 
In addition to the Chants, Prayers, and Artharvan Lore, 
which are devotional writings of varying merit, the Vedas in- 
clude two other kinds of religious books : one 'relating to the 
forests' (or meditations to be used by those who have retired 
from the world) and the other a group of speculations 
(which are the first known attempt to formulate a philoso- 
phy). There has also grown up around the Vedas a number 
of explanatory works, or what we would call commentaries. 
These 'limbs' or members of the body, while frequently in- 
cluded in the sacred canon and highly regarded by the 
faithful, are not reverenced as revelations; and are therefore 
known under the general title of Tradition. It is only with- 
in recent years that the Vedas were translated for the first 
time into English. Says Reed: " In restoring these old MSS. 
our scholars have preserved reHcs more ancient than the 
ruins of Nineveh and Babylon. " At first the translators 
gave us only the gems from the Vedas, omitting all the in- 
ferior parts; but modern scholars, according to the princi- 
ples of right criticism, have translated the original with per- 
fect candor. Portions often are found unfit for print; but 
in the interest of truth, even the offending passages have 
been appended in the standard translations. The scholars 
have met with opposition, from the Hindu scribes, to the full 
rendering of the original text; for such translations, though 
admittedly authentic, disprove the claim that the moral 
teaching of the Vedas is equal to that of the Christian Scrip- 
tures. The Brahmins long asserted that there is no com- 
mandment in the Old Testament, and no precept in the 



Golden Winged Days 115 

New, which is not anticipated in the Vedas. This asser- 
tion, according to the interpretation of English scholarship, 
is now proven to be false. Of their songs. Max Miiller says : 
" They are tedious, low, and commonplace." But under- 
neath a great quantity of rubbish, there is occasionally a 
brilliant and beautiful passage. While some of their hymns, 
as we have seen, may well rank high as literature. 

The Classic Period includes Poetical and Scientific 
literature. Of these two forms the Poetical literature pos- 
sesses the greater value; embracing as it does the Ancient 
Epic and Drama. The first portion of the poetical litera- 
ture are the ancient epics. These two great poems, the 
Ramayana znd the M a habharat a were compiled by cultured 
and learned Brahmins for the purpose of giving rehgious 
standing to the folklore and traditions of the people. One 
poem was for the West of India and the other was for the 
East. They were at first a mass of traditions, demonology, 
and hero-worship; but being united the whole forms a series 
of connected stories. These two great epics of Sanscrit 
literature are often called the Iliad and the Odyssey of the 
Hindus. The Ramayana in many ways resembles the Iliad. 
The subject of both Hindu and Greek poem is a war for 
the recovery of a beautiful woman, the wife of one of the 
warriors. In the Hindu story, Sita is a more ideal charac- 
ter than Helen of Troy. She is true to her husband while 
the Trojan princess is faithless. Among the most beautiful 
passages are the words of Sita to her husband beseeching 
that she may join him in his exile: 

A wife must share her husband's fate. My duty 

is to follow thee where e'er thou goest. 
Roaming with thee the desert wastes, a thousand years 

will be a day. 
Close as the shadow would I cling to thee, in this life; 

and hereafter. " 



ii6 Golden Winged Days 

The Mahabharata is the most gigantic poetical work known 
to literature. It has two hundred and twenty thousand 
lines, while the Iliad and the Odyssey combined have only 
about thirty thousand. It is divided into eighteen sec- 
tions; each one of which would make a very large volume. 
This epic also is the story of a great war. The poem con- 
tains profound information on the history, religion and 
social life of the Hindus. As a specimen of the style I give 
one strong passage descriptive of the encounter of two 
heroes : 

" Now sprang they toward each other mace in hand. 
And first, as cautiously they circled round 
Whirling their weapons as in sport, the pair 
Seemed matched in equal combat. 
Now like the roar of crashing thunder-clouds 
Sounded the clashing iron. Then their clubs 
Brandished aloft, eight paces they retired; 
And swift again advancing to the fight 
Met in the midst like two huge mountain crags 
Hurled into contact." 

This is magnificent and compares favorably with any of the 
mortal combats of Homer. The great dramatist of classical 
India is Kalidasa; and his finest work is called Shakuntala. 
This poet was the Shakespeare of India; and though no 
definite date may be assigned to him, it is thought he lived 
about 500 B. C. His poem is written in Sanscrit, and though 
in dramatic form was not intended wholly for personation; 
many of its finest passages having been written for the de- 
light of scholars. It is composed in the highest form of 
Hindu dramatic art; and sets forth heroic characters and 
good deeds. Shakuntala has been translated into modern 
languages only within the last few generations; but it no 
sooner appeared than it was at once recognized as one of 



Golden Winged Days 117 

the world's masterpieces. Goethe says of it: 

" Wilst du den Himmel die Erde mit einem namen 

begreifen 
Neu ich Shakuntala dich, und so ist alles gesaght. '' 
Of less renown, but perhaps more typical of the people is a 
play called the Mud Cart. This drama was written about 
the beginning of the Christian Era; and is more life like 
than any other Indian poem. Its touch of nature has made 
it appreciated in Europe. The play is written in Sanscrit, 
and opens with a prayer to Shiva, the dread god, whose neck 
encircled by the arm of his wife, is likened to a cloud crossed 
by a line of lightning. The first scene presents the de- 
jected prince and his friend in conversation. The prince 
is in deep poverty and his friend tries to comfort him: 
Prince : '* Truly I take no heed of my lost wealth. 

By the course of Fate, riches come and go. 
One thought burns me; and that is how 

the world falls off 
From friendship with one whose wealth 
has fled." 
And in another place, seeking to detain the woman he loves 
Prince: " Why do you fly ? 

All your ornaments jingling as you go. " 
Friend (As the maiden still hastens away): 

" An elephant may be held by a rope, a horse 
by a bridle, but 
Have you not heard, a woman can be held 
only by her heart?" 
The Poetical literature includes also, in addition to its an- 
cient epics and dramas, a few lesser modern epics, legends, 
and lyrical poems, and a certain style of ficton. The body 
of this modern work is of inferior merit. Indian novels are 
of course of recent origin, and they show a decidedly Occi- 



Ii8 Golden Winged Days 

dental influence. They treat of Indian social life and of 
questions affected by the encroachments of western civiliza- 
tion. . . The Scientific literature finds its highest ex- 
pression in philosophy; which is in itself a great study. 
The Hindu mind is not scientific, but is essentially reflective 
and introspective: hence its singular adaptability to the pur- 
suit of philosophy. Hindu religion and philosophy are so 
interwoven that they are inseparable; while Hindu science 
is science only in name. In India there are six orthodox and 
two heretical systems of philosophy. The central idea of 
Hindu thought is that individual souls all spring from one 
essence, as sparks issue from the fire. Man's spirit is from 
God, so it is destined to return and to become absorbed in 
the being of God. This seems to the Hindus the only ex- 
planation of the problem of existence; and it is a solution 
that is never once called in question by them. The only 
study in which they are remarkable as profound thinkers 
is that of philosophy; but the distinction of their thought 
lies always in its intricacy rather than in its logic. In ad- 
dition to philosophy their so-called Scientific literature, 
claims to include a number of other branches of learning. 
India has an immense legal lore. The Smriti is regarded 
as the embodiment of laws revealed from God. These laws 
were not codified until the eleventh century; and from that 
time Indian jurists have been occupied reconciling their 
contradictions. Grammar is an especially important study, 
as it is one of the Mimbs' of the Veda, or means of explaining 
their sacred scriptures. The dictionaries of the Hindus 
are more interesting than ours, being arranged in the form 
of verse. Sanscrit prosody has variety of metre and har- 
moniousness of rhythm. Music has been studied by the 
Hindus from the earliest times. In their Scientific litera- 
ture there are two standard works upon harmony. Indian 



Golden Winged Days 1 19 

music consists almost entirely of melody. Literary compo- 
sition is a theme particularly attractive to the Hindus. 
Their literature upon rhetoric (treating of style, ornamen- 
tation, alliteration, etc.) is voluminous and dates from the 
tw^elfth century. In ancient India some efforts were made 
to understand the healing art. Indian medical authorities 
are, however, of no value: their therapeutics being almost 
pure superstition, and their practice consisting of rites, 
incantations, and magic, such as the most ignorant classes of 
Europe employ. The science of medicine (as introduced 
through Christian medical missionaries and taught by Eu- 
ropeans) is a modern innovation which is being recognized 
and welcomed in India. 

One word concerning the Fusing Point of the old and 
new. The conflict between Eastern and Western thought 
began when occidental civilization entered India. Europe 
has been slow to comprehend or appreciate the sacred books 
and the learning of the East. From their first coming, the 
concern of foreigners was for wealth; and all that treasury 
of literature and song was overlooked. In the years fol- 
lowing, an occasional enthusiast strived to bring the West to 
a recognition of the writers of India; but for many years 
all efforts were unavailing. The Asiatic Society has done 
much to inform the Occident concerning the history, an- 
tiquities, arts, science, and literature of the Orient. As 
one has said: " Europe cannot afford to be obdurate to the 
intellectual greatness of India. We need her long record 
of how man has striven for some solution of himself, and 
toward an ideal completeness. " On the other hand while 
the Occident has been slow to realize the existence of East- 
ern literature, the Orient has been far more impervious to 
Western thought. A certain writer says: " The best of the 
intellectual heritage handed down from the Grecian, 



120 Golden Winged Days 

Semitic, and Roman genius are borne to India from the West; 
and yet the result of all these forces seems doubtful. '* If 
Europe cannot afford to be ignorant of Indian thought much 
less can India afford to reject the ideas of Europe. With- 
out question the man who has done most to educate India 
concerning Western civilization is William Carey, who in 
1822 started the first newspaper in Hindu. He wrote two 
dictionaries and four grammars in the vernacular. He was 
made professor of Sanscrit at Fort St. Williams. His work 
included the establishment of twenty schools for the educa- 
tion of native children, and the printing of the Christian 
Scriptures in twenty vernaculars. However slow India 
may be to awaken intellectually, morally she is moving im- 
perceptibly toward the higher life. Says Chendar Sen, a 
native Hindu: " It is Christ who rules India, and not the 
British government. England has sent out a tremendous 
moral force in the life and character of that mighty prophet 
to conquer and hold this vast empire. None but Jesus 
none but Jesus, none but Jesus, ever deserved this bright, 
this precious diadem, India; and His she shall be." 



KIPLING'S INDIA 

There is probably no man living better qualified to 
write upon the picturesque side of India — her oriental life 
and scenes — than is Rudyard Kipling. Though of English 
descent and educated in England, he lived through his 
childhood in India, and returned thither in manhood; where 
old memories were revived and new impressions were re- 
ceived. Of all strange countries of the Orient, India is one 



Golden Winged Days I2I 

where is especially felt what has been called "the irresistible 
magic of scorching suns, subject empires, uncanny religions 
and smothered up women; heat and cold, danger and dust. " 
What has Kipling done with material so heterogeneous ? 
Mirthful, intelligent, exuberant, laughing to himself con- 
sumedly at all the strange adventures of Mowgli and Chal- 
long; the quips and cranks of his Soldiers Three; hearing in 
resident English quarters the gossip of the mess, the draw- 
ing-room and the boudoir ; he saw every phase of Indian 
life, felt it all and told it. 

Kipling's Indian works are of two kinds: real India, 
as given in his letters of travel, and imaginary India as con- 
ceived in his Indian tales. In his Letters of Marque the 
chapters on new and old India seem to alternate. And 
everywhere are facts lightened by fancies; observations 
valuable and entertaining. As a traveler he tells of modern 
India: the actual people and country. But as an artist he 
loves best to dwell upon old India: the land of dreams. 
Kipling's descriptions of Indian scenery are like delicate 
water-colors, in the care and exquisite taste with which they 
are drawn. Here is a sketch from his notes of travel, 
" Jeypore a pink city set on the border of a blue lake, and 
surrounded by the low red spurs of the Aravalis." And 
this: ** I have seen Chitor by moonlight. I will never try 
to describe what I have seen, but will keep it as a love letter, 
a thing for one pair of eyes only — a memory. " The desert 
with its mystery is lightly drawn: ** When the black dusk 
had shut down, I climbed up a little hill and saw the stars 
come out over the desert. Very far away some camel drivers 
had lighted a fire and were singing as they sat by the side of 
their beasts. Their voices came into the city wall and beat 
against it in multiplied echoes. " And again, writing of the 
camels he says: "Wherever the eye falls it sees a camel or a 



122 Golden Winged Days 

string of camels: lean racer-built camels; or heavy, black, 
shaggy-haired trading ships. Through the night the air is 
alive with the babbling and howling of the brutes, who assur- 
edly must suffer from nightmare. In the morning the chorus 
is deafening. A camel has as wide a range of speech as an 
elephant. I found a little one crooning to itself alone in the 
sand. Its nose-string was broken; hence its joy. But a 
big man beat it and it rose up and sobbed." The ancient 
country, lying dead centuries below living India, made a deep 
impress upon Kipling, who thus writes of it: "I stum- 
bled across more ruins, and passed between ruins of dead 
Ranis till I came to a flight of steps built out and cut out 
from the rock, going down as far as I could see into a growth 
of trees on the terrace below me. The stone of the steps had 
been worn and polished by naked feet, till it shone by its 
markings clear as agate. The air was thick with stale in- 
cense, and grains of rice were scattered upon the steps. But 
there was no one to be seen. I slipped on the rocks and fell 
into a dull blue tank, sunk between walls of timeless m.ason- 
ry. It was as though the descent had led me two thousand 
years away from my own country. I endured it as long as 
I could — about two minutes. Then it came upon me that 
I must go quickly out of this place of years and blood and 
must get back into the afternoon sunshine." Writing on a 
nobler theme he dwells on that marvelous offering of im- 
mortal love: " The Taj was the ivory gate through which 
all good dreams come. It was the realization of the glim- 
mering halls of dawn that Tennyson sings of, and the sigh 
made stone of a lesser poet. It seemed the embodiment of 
all things pure, all things holy, all things unhappy. . . To 
one who watched and wondered, that November morning, 
the thing seemed full of sorrow, the sorrow of the man who 
built it for the woman he loved, the sorrow of the workmen 



Golden Winged Days 123 

who died in the building. And in the face of this sorrow the 
Taj flushed in the sunlight and was beautiful, after the 
beauty of a woman who has done no wrong. " 

Kipling's imaginary India is found in his Eastern fiction. 
There are three varieties of stories, corresponding to three 
distinct phases of his own Indian experiences. These are 
his tales of native life, stories of the army, and narratives 
of social and -^nglo-Indian hfe. From the tales of native 
life Indian scenes are flaming on every page. In Kim, 
where that little beggar travels with his holy man far up the 
Hills, there is a subHme view of the Himalayas; and in the 
same book, by way of contrast, there are ghmpses of the 
Low Country, where the natives work in the fields, *'to the 
creeking of the well-wheels, the shouting of ploughmen be- 
hind their cattle and the clamour of the crows. " Again we 
find this little descriptive bit: "There was a drowsy buzzing 
of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of doves and a sleepy 
drone of well-wheels across the fields. " One scene, taking 
in as it does all manner of Indian life, is typical of the land: 
** It was beautiful to watch the people on the road, little 
clumps of red and blue and pink and white and saffron, 
turning aside to go to their own villages, dispersing and grow- 
ing small across the level plain." In another place Kip- 
ling describes a dust storm: " The air grew hotter and hot- 
ter, and a burning hot wind began lashing the orange trees 
with a sound like the voice of the sea. The dust-storm was 
on us, and everything was roaring, whirling darkness. The 
light vanished. The air was heavy with dust, and sand 
from the bed of the river filled the boots and pockets and 
drifted down necks and coated eyebrows." The approach 
to the Hill Country is thus described: ** You pass through 
big, still, deodar forests, and under big, still cliffs, and over 



124 Golden Winged Days 

big, still grass-downs swelling like a woman's breasts; and 
the wind across the grass, and the rain among the deodars 
says *hush, hush, hush.' " In Dinah Shad, Kipling looks 
at the tropic sky: *' Over our heads burned the wonderful 
Indian stars, which are not all picked out in one place, but 
preserving an orderly perspective, draw the eye through 
the velvet darkness of the void, up to the barred doors of 
Heaven itself." One of Kipling's greatest short stories is 
the End of the Passage. It is an awful study of the human 
conscience; but it is of interest here for its native scenes: 
" Every door and window was shut, for the outside air was 
that of an oven. The thermometer within was 104°. The 
odor of the native tobacco, baked brick and dried earth send 
the heart of many a strong man down to his boots; for it is 
the smell of the great Indian Empire when she turns her- 
self into a house of torment. " In contrast to this view is 
one from Mine Own People: "The night had closed in, rain 
and rolling clouds blotted out the lights of the valley. For 
miles away, untouched by cloud or storm, the white shoul- 
der of Donja Pa — the mountain of the council of the gods — 
upheld the evening star. The monkeys sang sorrowfully 
to each other as they hunted for dry roots in the fern-draped 
trees; and the last pufF of the day wind brought from the 
unseen villages the scent of damp wood, smoke, dripping 
undergrowth and rolling pine-cones. The smell is the true 
smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets into the blood of 
a man, he will at the last, forgetting all else, turn to the Hills 
to die." . . . Kipling draws native character — the na- 
tive as he is in his haunts — with a strong stroke, because 
with the Hindu he has lived and worked. "No man," says 
one of his heroes, "can tell what natives think unless he 
mixes with them, with the varnish off and not always then. " 
Of their irregular habits he says: " All hours in twenty-four 



Golden Winged Days 125 

are alike to orientals. " Referring to their superstition, the 
lama in Kim is not disturbed by the nearness of the cobra: 
Let him live out his life. May thy release come soon, 
brother. " In another story allusion is made to the innum- 
erable wandering hosts of pious scholars: " All India is 
full of holy men stammering gospels in strange tongues, 
shaken and consumed in the fires of their own zeal; dream- 
ers, babblers, and visionaries." The antiquity of the In- 
dian race causes the native to hold the European in scorn. 
There is a grandeur in the personality of the Hindu repre- 
sentative of a people so old that European civilization is 
newly born beside it. Says Kipling's Frenchman, viewing 
a motionless Hindu: " 'Look at the folds of the drapery. 
Look at his eyes, how insolent! Why does he make one 
feel we are so young a people ?' He scowled at the placid 
face and monumental calm of the Indian's pose." The 
native princes appear occasionally in Kipling's pages: **The 
king was dressed in a purple velvet jacket, white muslin 
trowsers and saffron yellow turban. He gave me an audi- 
ence in a room opening off the palace courtyard. This 
place was occupied by the elephant of state. The great 
beast was sheeted from trunk to tail; and the curves of his 
back stood out against the skyline. The king cast a wreath 
of heavy scented flowers around my neck. He said since I 
had set my magnificent foot in his kingdom, the crops would 
probably yield 70 per cent, more than the average. Then 
we sat down on clean white cushions; and I was at the king's 
right hand." 

In his early twenties while Kipling was toiling over 
journalistic work in India, the Duke of Connaught, hap- 
pening to meet him, enquired what literary line he wished 
to follow. To which the young man instantly replied, 
" Tommy Atkins. " The prince was pleased that Kipling 



126 Golden Winged Days 

desired to study the British soldier; and he at once gave the 
writer admittance to every regiment under his command. 
After that Kipling lived among the troops, and became 
thoroughly versed in the ways of the rough, brave, and often 
carousing Tommy Atkins. The soldiers looked upon him as 
their prophet. Some of the most rollicking, irresistibly 
comical stories in our tongue are those of the adventures in 
India of the British soldier. Mulvaney is the best type of 
them all. For graphic description this account of his own 
adventures by the ubiquitous Mulvaney is unsurpassed: 
*Then the doors of all the parlequins slid back and the 
women bundled out. 'Twas more glorious than transfor- 
mations or a pantomime. For they were in pink and blue 
and silver and red and grass-green, wid diamonds and 
imeralds and great red rubies. I never saw the like and I 
never will again!' 'Seeing that you were watching, in all 
probability, the wives and daughters of most of the kings of 
India, the chances are that you wont,' I said; for Mulvaney 
had stumbled upon a big queen's praying bee at Benares. 
*They prayed an' the incense thurned everything blue, as 
they were all ablaze and twinklin'. They took hold of the 
god's knees and cried out and threw themselves about; and 
the world-without-end music was thrivin' them mad. " 

In his stories of Anglo-Indian life, Kipling studied the 
resident English as they dwell either segregated from the 
Hindus or as they live in close touch with the natives at every 
point. Society in India is wholly foreign; and is composed of 
the officers, their wives and families. The Gadshy*s and 
Others is a collection of such stories. The men characters 
flavor a little of rowdyism in private and perfunctory parade 
in public; the women of frivolity as well as cleverness, both in 
public as well as private — ''rattling, riding ladies," as James 
calls them. And all lead an idle, gay, happy-go-lucky life 



Golden Winged Days 127 

which is calculated to improve neither their morals nor 
their usefulness. 

Le Gallienne and others have justly criticised Kipling 
for throwing his large energies on the side of brute force, to 
the exclusion of that refinement of thought which is as much 
a component part of a really great writer as is strength itself. 
Le Gallienne says certain influences advance and certain 
influences retard civilization; and that Kipling's is an in- 
fluence which retards. In the Indian stories, however, 
there is an occasional grave note. Here are expressed ra- 
ther serious views with reference to the eff^ect of Indian in- 
fluence upon the character development of the English peo- 
ple. "In most cities," says one of Kipling's heroes, "the 
natives will tell you of Englishmen turned Hindu or Mussel- 
men, and who live more or less as such. The missionaries 
cannot reach them: their change of creed lowers them past 
redemption. Such was Blank. Life in India had made 
him what he was. *Good heavens,' he cried, T was an Ox- 
ford man. On the soul which I have lost, on the conscience 
which I have killed, I tell you I cannot feel. " 

What is the abiding distinction of Kipling ? Does it 
lie in his verse, or traveler's tale or fantastic fiction? In 
none of these so much as in one fact: he discovered India. 
He tracked the British soldier and the native, over the land. 
Kipling's genius is versatile and his fame is deservedly great; 
but his chiefest glory, present and to come, are the tales that 
he brought from his marvelous Ind. 



PART SECOND 



i 



INVOCATION 

Ariel 

Verse writes itself. And oft its run is mischievous 
And is not guided by the will nor yet by common-sense. 
It takes the pen, and in a whirligig of mirth 
Goes dancing forth; and will not find its thought nor sus- 
tenance 
In things most valuable. But with a nonch'lant air 
Doth pass them by; and guiltily doth stand 
Where wisdom least invites. 

It beckons too and smiles; and e'er you travel in its steps 
Is off and gone. And flitting far away, eludes your sight; 
As e'en out-witting you, it hath your grasp. 
Oh, vain delusive Verse ! I would not tame thee if I could : 
For bright and winsome thou — a thing of dreams and soft 

delights. 
And in thy golden passing from the earth 
A dismal void dost leave. 

So come thou gentle Sprite! And make thy visits brief 

Or long or what thou wilt, and ever thou shalt find 

A welcome warm and sure; while my worn heart is com- 
forted 

And gladdened by thy stay. When thou dost go — as go 
thou must, — 

Thy presence in my heart will still abide: 

I will remember thee with smiles and tears 

And tender thoughts of love. 

131 



Book I . — Nature 
A RIVER OF LIFE 



Since that far, dim and pre-historic age, 
E'er from the North the giant glaciers came, 
Or Indian midst these wooded wilds appeared, 
Hath Mississippi flowed from fount to sea. 



II 



Its secret source in silver spring is sought 
'Neath matted moss and tasseled, tangled grass; 
And there in mystic music, murmurs soft 
Its tender, light and happy melody. 



Ill 



So sweet the waters at that fairy fount. 
That nectar from the over-hanging flowers 
(Which border bright in bloom along its brink) 
Seems to have been distilled into it! 



IV 



On it doth go, till midst the golden fields 
It pauses, dallying — indifferent; 
Like as a charming child on errand sent. 
With laggard step it moveth 'long its way. 



132 



Golden Winged Days 133 

V 

Now in a changeful mood, tumultuously 
It rageth as it runneth o'er the rocks, 
And throweth back its myriad-colored mane, 
And scatt'reth wide its angry froth and foam. 

VI 

Then as a modest maiden in her 'teens 
Seeks out of sight to sink, neath shelt'ring robe, 
Lest one observe her form and lovely face, 
So 'neath the hanging crag doth river hide. 

VII 

On 'twixt the rocky steep and barren cliff. 
From sparkling, shining light to shadows deep; 
Reflective, thoughtful, contemplative stream — 
The slow and silent river sadly flows. 

VIII 

Anon the waters glide midst thousand isles 
That only for enchantment have been made; 
And circling round, emerge upon a view: 
A space serene that seems a glimpse of heaven. 

IX 

O Pipin fair, as on thy shore I stand 
And wid'ning waters note, and emerald sheen 
That traceth rivers edge, I ask no more 
Of Paradise — our final bourne — than this. 



134 Golden Winged Days 

X 

The radiant colors of thy sky and sea, 
How rapturously each into each they blend! 
Thine islands stretching in their slender length, 
Entice and deviate the course of ships. 



O mighty stream, a river thou of life ^ 

Which glad refreshment gives to men Mrho come I 

And (gath'ring from all climes along thy brink) « 

Seek fainting — rest and satisfaction here. ^ 

I 
Si 

XII 

Thou dost to nations of the world belong; 
But more to us — in an especial sense — 
Who live upon thy borders broad and fair. 
And know thee well; and know thee but to love. 



Book II — Fragment 

Group i 

DELIVERANCE 

Not now. The pangs are past. 

Travailed ambition in my soul — 

But it hath burst its bonds! 

The wild unrest 

That fretted every fibre of my being. 

No longer drives me on. 

And in its place has come a blessed calm 

I listen joyous to the morning song 
That greets my wak'ning ear; 
And smile at all the testiness of day; 
And sink content upon my restful couch 

With thankful prayer 

God's will is best. 
Not now. The pangs are past. 

DIVINE IMMANENCE 



A flowret as the day grew late, 
Peeped out to greet the sun. 
A telephonic message straight 
From flower to sun was run: 



136 Golden Winged Days 

II 

** You're high and strong and full of power, 
You flood the world with light; 
While I, a timid little flower, 
Am nothing in your sight. 

Ill 

But in the centre of my heart 
Creation's spirit dwells. 
Of all the world of life a part: 
One mighty Love propels. 

IV 

A moment of organic life 
Is worth an age of force; 
Suns know not what it is to live 
Through cycles of their course. 



I lift my blooms to catch your rays, 
And close them in the night. 
Responsive I will sing His praise 
From whom come life and light. " 



THE IMPROVISATORE 

Chords, minor chords. I Hsten to the strain 
That on the soft and silent evening air 



Golden Winged Days 137 

Floats to me here — O, ecstacy of pain! 
An artist's heart is breaking unaware. 



NATURE'S VACUUM 

The heart that may no love contain 
Doth like an empty shell remain: 
The smiles, the sighs, the joys, the tears, 
(The melodies of vanished years) 
Are past and gone; and even this 
Sweet music but an echo is! 



THE DUAL SELF 
I 

PHYSICAL 

The folly I have writ doth pall on me. 

Oh, I would turn and in derision fly! 

Is there no fount where one may quench his thirst ? 

No panacea mild for human ill ? 

No mountain peak where silent and alone, 

The soul with God may hold communion sweet ? 

They weary me: the dull and senseless sounds 

Of platitude, which purposeless prevail. 

II 

SUBLIMINAL 

Come, gentle Muse, and all my senses stirring, 
Bring to me rapture from holy realms of light. 



13^ Golden Winged Days 

That I may trace, with pen of fire unerring, 
Visions from thee which break upon my sight. 
Tune thou my heart to melodies celestial 
(Seraphs descending from the distant throne) 
That I may hear, though breathing air terrestrial. 
Angelic songs to mortal ear unknown. 



Group ii 

COMFORTING SEA 

Oh, the long, clean stretches of sand 
Where the tide has gone out of the bay! 
The shelterless sky, the unfeeling land 
That blend at the close of the day. 

Oh, the gripping and griping of pain. 
As the lights come out on the shore! 
Oh, the soothing and endless refrain — 
Soft murmur of waves o'er and o'er' 



CLOSED DOOR 



The portal's closed! Oh, what's beyond? 
My fancy's rife with guesses. 
She's standing by her mirror. Sweet! 
That all her grace confesses. 



Golden Winged Days 139 

II 

And now she dips her pretty hand 
In waters white and crystal. 
And now her shoe she laces swift; 
And now the merry missile 



III 



Of eyes turned through the op'ning door 
Fires all my soul, and leaves me 
Upon the carpet lying prone — 
Now surely she believes me! 



IV 



She lifts me with her slender hand 
You may not know the reason; 

But this your visit, sir, " she says, 
Is wholly out of season. 



But come this evening in the place 
Of early morning rising 
I may have something more to say 
That's equally surprising. 



VI 



For maids and men and childen too 
Care not for intsrlopeis; 



140 Golden Winged Days 

But child and maid and man agree 
That night's the time for lovers. " 



INTERPRETATION 

Anything you please you can make from Skakespeare's lines. 
For Truth is many-sided and is seen 

By the vision of the Seer from the point on which he stands ; 
And luminous the light which lies between. 



WAITING 

TO MARK TWAIN 

Compulsions not for me; nor any bugle calls. 
Soon dark my tent within; without the darkness falls. 
Lights out!" 

The guns are stacked in peace; the camp-fire burneth low. 
The signal calm await; I stand attention now. 
" Lights out!" 



NON-RESISTANCE 

A little leaf that floating down the stream 
Knows naught of what the angry billows be 
Is typical of lives that are controlled 
By wisdom and by high philosophy. 



Golden Winged Days 141 

The strenuous part of living is in growth. 
But time is ripe when every leaf must fall; 
And unseen forces acting thereupon, 
Its future fate are likely to forestall. 

Ah, foolish little leaf to burn and glow 
With burnished gold and ruby's flushed lip, 
Submit to be engulfed or carried on 
The blue and tranquil bosom of the deep. 



Group hi 

TRANSLATION 

Oh, strange, mysterious night! 

The gently moving mist doth slowly mount 

And mingle with the shim'ring light of silver moon. 

The trees, like forms in black, stand out against the sky. 
The wind, with icy touch comes cutting from the North. 
And all is still, save distant sound of tinkling bell. 

From out the shadowy darkness of the night 
My spirit sings and soars and sings; 
And singing doth to moonlight vistas rise. 

And soaring mingle with the tender mist. 

There far away it balances twixt heaven and earth: 

Sojourning from without the clay. And soaring ever sings, 

A human voice doth call — and all is o'er. 
My spirit to its prison-house returns: 
For life is death. And only death is life. 



142 Golden Winged Days 

MY LADY BEAUTIFUL 

From out a cloud of pink one face beams forth. 

She 'minds me of the rosy dawn 

Clad radiantly in robes of light; 

Or as a flower in June, comes budding slow, 

And by her blushes soft, betrays 

Her secret yearning for the sun. 

Beam, rosy dawn ! Bud tenderly, sweet flower ! | 

And into transport throw my happy heart. ) 

For beauty is it's own excuse I 

And for it's being needeth none. | 

I would not have thy light or color less — J 
Nor other canst thou be in loveliness. 

POESY 

Verse hath no arbitrary laws 
To silence poet's song. 
Tis for his aid the laws exist: 
Eliminate the wrong. 

For like the chisel in the hand 
Upon the marble laid, 
Poetic law perfection gives 
E'er artist's hand be stayed. 

REFRESHMENT 

Rested, the dusty pathway tread, I rise and go. 
Unwearied still my buoyant heart beats on! 



Golden Winged Days 143 

A beam of hope burns steadily before — 
A beacon in the midnight darkness of the world; 
Afar it shines ! and out of mist and gloom 
Triumphant brings me nearer to my final goal 
Of perfect peace in God. 



VIVA! 

I find all life a constant show: 
The children dancing in the wind; 
The lady in her furbelow; 
The slowly moving patient kine 
Which go for aye by halter led; 
The up-turned cart (a way-side speech, 
The owner's mute appeal for bread) 
A finished sketch: a picture each 
Which movement doth but emphasize. 
In sunny gallery of the brain 
Reflected there it hangeth high; 
And each reflection but a scene 
Of that without: illusive bright 
Entrancing to the sens'tive sight. 



Group iv 
GOLDEN WINGED DAYS 

Oh, for a more abundant life 
Beyond the best that earth may bring; 



144 Golden Winged Days 

A higher life than now I live, 
I truer song than now I sing! 

The days go by on golden wings; 
I greet them laughing in the morn, 
I lightly scatter them aside, 
I gayly waste them one by one. 

Like little falcon birds they come 
And feebly perch upon my hand: 
** Will you not aid me swift to rise ? 
Oh, lift me high from off the land!" 

And lift I do — but where the flight 
Of happy bird and happy day ? 
'Tis gone, I know not where nor how; 
It's precious worth, ah, who may say ? 

Oh, golden winged happy day 
I may not ever find again. 
Remain to teach me how I may 
The meaning true of life attain! 

WILD ROSE 

Of all the flowers that cluster round my door 

And upward spring, like thoughts in happy dreams, 

Or purposeless appear save for expression pure 

Of God's own spontaneity of love, 

The gladsome wild-wood rose lies nearest me. 

I may not touch it's petals soft, alas, 
(Those petals dipped in color of the West) 



Golden Winged Days 145 

Or instantly they droop and fall away. 
Nor e'en may venture in relaxed hand 
Too long to lightly hold its slender stem : 
For there is that within its fragile make 
That even love inviolate may not invade. 
Its presence by its fragrance e'en is felt — 
A wraith-like breath, illusive, faint and fleet. 
But breath and hue and form are for a day. 

A moment only doth it take its place in time. 
And then all peacefully it gently falls 
And mingles with the crumbled dust: 
The substance sweet of former flowers. 

And now my wildling too is gone 

And leaves to me a memory — a memory. 

ACORNS 

The little acorn dropping on my roof 
Reminds me of the flight of summer days : 
How brief the time when from its tiny cup 
It drank the dew-drops and the sun-light rays! 

And now the acorns — full of life become — 
Are loosening from the boughs their slender hold: 
They fall upon the ground and scatter far, 
And of a forest, promises unfold. 

Oh, little acorns, teach me how to live 
That I my chalice too may bring with me; 
And pouring out a wealth of love on earth 
A forest of good deeds there yet may be ! 



146 Golden Winged Days 

AT THE AUDITORIUM 

A decolette gown at the opera she wore 

And above the soft fabric her shoulders shone white. 
From Diva the songstress my eyes wandered o'er 

To the maiden alone who remained in my sight. 
Sing, ho hi, hey, for the maid in rhe light 

Decolette gown at the opera that night! 



TEMPERAMENT ARTISTIQUE 

" Their young men shall see visions and their maidens shall 
dream, dreams." 



VOIX D ESPRIT 

Something there is in beauty which upon my soul 
Doth leave it reeling, half intoxicate. 
O, I could shout and sing for very joy: 
Such strange effects doth beauty in me stir. 

The sunshine slanting through the grasses long; 
The south wind bending gladiolus tall; 
What witchery of shifting, glinting light! 
What grace, incomprehensible and soft! 

CLOSED DOOR 

All things but leave me in a rapture of delight 

That I should live to feel and hear and see so much; 

And harmonies of sight and thought and sound 

This earth should daily give to me, and ne'er withhold. 



Golden Winged Days 147 

II 

JE RESPONDE 

When first, a little girl, I took my brush 
And tried to paint on canvas all I felt, 
The strange, distorted images reflected there 
Turned me in cruel anger on myself. 

And then on instrument I placed my hand 
And strove therew^ith now^ to express my w^ill; 
But unresponsive keys remained to my touch — 
And I was doomed to disappointment still. 

Then on a bright and memorable day 

A kindly hand was laid upon mine own; 

" Your little song, sweetheart, has touched me so; 

Will you not sing it once again ? " he said. 

And since that welcome, long-awaited hour 
(A medium found at last for every mood) 
I sing my joy and sorrow and my dower 
Of riches vast of faith and hope and love. 



Group v 
THE ANNIVERSARY 

(Sept. 23d.) 

How shall we our wedding day fitly celebrate ? 
Shall we dance a roundelay .? Shall we dine in state ? 



148 Golden Winged Days 

Love, there is one only way, for a time so great 

In our hearts, by which we may duly mark the date. 

Where but in the wooded glade should we hie away. 
E'er the blossoms fall and fade on our wedding day ? 
Haste thee, sweetheart, to the shade of the forest gray — 
Soft for lovers hath been made light through which to stray! 

We will wander, we will sing till the sun falls low; 
Then beneath night's darkened wing, happy slumber know. 
Naught this good old world may bring, naught this life be- 
stow 
E'er shall sever golden ring, shatter sacred vow! 

VACATION 

Speeding far and speeding fast. 
Just the night for summering 
In the green and mossy dells — 
What care I for slumbering! 

One must learn the rigmarole 
Of old books quite logical — 
I prefer a fishing pole 
To things pedagogical! 

Hunter's hope and hunter's mind. 
Gay the wildwood canvassing! 
Bed of verdure freely find. 
With no thought of trespassing. 

Speeding fast and speeding far, 
Far from life's monotonv; 



Golden Winged Days 149 

I care most for living flower — 
Naught care I for botany! 



HOMER SYNDICATE 

It hurts for us to have in mind 
A day when we shall be 
In literature like grains of sand 
With lost identity. 

You form the head (perhaps the ear) 
I may foot-notes indict; 
Another, honors false may wear 
From books he could not write. 

Where then the inspiration pure 
Of high desire and lofty thought } 
'Twill buried be beneath the pier 
Of *copy' which the firm has bought! 



THE VISITOR 

House-cleaning time! House-cleaning time! 
Things buried long from sight; 
From out this heart-shaped box of mine 
Love letters brought to light. 

I sit me down with pensive sigh 
Upon the attic floor. 
I feel a gentle presence nigh — 
My husband's at the door! 



150 Golden Winged Days 

SEMPER FIDELIS 

There is but one who claims allegiance 

And whole heart love from me. I grant him this 

And more. If visited by faintest thought 

Of faithlessness, oh, may I stricken be! 

For womanhood abased stands 

That may not look her husband in the eyes 

And say that he is all in all to her. 

Oh, true and tried, a rock that shelt'reth me — 

Immovable! I am not worthy to be called 

Your wife if I might find in desert sands 

E'en but a temporary lodging place. 

Thou art my home, my rest, my strong right arm. 

My seeing eye and understanding heart. 

My peace on earth, in heaven my joy and crown. 



Group vi 
THINGS THAT ARE BEHIND 

" Forgetting the things which are behind." Phil. iii. 13. 

'Tis passing strange 
That for the children of the brain one careth not. 
And like the savage mother with her brood 
(When they have been cast off) one never more 
Doth give them single thought; though they were dear 
To mind and heart, and one hath o'er them bent 
And labored tenderly with pain. 
And nurtured them from faintness back to life, 



Golden Winged Days 151 

And given them the best one had of strength — 
They pass from sight. And now are quite forgot- 



NATURE'S RISIBLES 

Satire hath a place in nature 
Hid within deep-sea domains; 
Or where mammoth Dinosauria 
Pre-historic roamed the plains. 

While for humor and for laughter 
Little creatures fill the earth 
With a constant curious banter 
Challenging our human mirth. 

SMALL LIFE 

A wondrous world, in August days, 
Of little forms comes into life. 
They silent spring from woody ways: 
No sound of joy, no note of strife. 

As blossoms gay that bloom in May 
They rise from no one knows just where; 
Like winged flowers they fly away 
And vanish in the summer air. 

The one I love — sweet spirit moth — 
As glad he opes his filmy wing. 
Of all alas, no voice he hath 
Or as he flits away would sing. 



152 Golden Winged Days 

What is that little rasping sound 
That through the long, still August hours 
Comes creaking up from out the ground 
Beneath the warm, soft grass and flowers ? 

The cricket and the katidid 
A moment own the happy earth; 
But low and brief their lives are hid — 
Extinction quickly follows birth. 



THE OPEN FIRE 



(memorabilia, I 



1 



What bright amenities are with our open fire 
Associate! the jest, the talk, the laughter light 
Of girls and matrons, youths and sages gray — 
Who here have gathered on a Friday night. 



II 



The pictures rise, and as I see them one by one 

My mind itself in meditation sweet employs: 

For distance is not needed to enhance 

The charms of home and wholesome household's joys. 



III 



The fire-place with its wainscott high of oak, 
Hath for its setting tiles of Delft, old blue; 



Golden Winged Days 1 53 

The great brass andirons stand on guard before 
And lambent flame reflect, that runneth through. 



IV 



In dainty costume, quite within the mode, 
I see the women drawing round the hearth; 
And barristers (the wisest of them all) 
Unbend their joints and minister to mirth! 



Not always is the talk of lightest kind : 
For problems deep and questions may arise. 
Oh, brows will knit, and lips forget to smile 
And chase away the light of laughing eyes. 



VI 



The cup that cheers but not inebriates 
Is now brought steaming from the little board, 
And by the maid is gravely given to all — 
Each guest becoming clamorous for more! 



VII 



My Friday evenings, what they are to me 

As down the quiet path of life I tread! 

I number them as slowly passing by 

They soon will snow-flakes drop upon my head. 



154 Golden Winged Days 

Group vii 

SONGS O'THE NIGHT 

A little bird perched high on winter branch 
Against a sun-set sky of emerald 
Is parable of Christmas day's experience 
That hath so much bestowed, so much withheld: 

The sky translucent and the hovering cloud, 
The golden ball of slowly sinking sun. 
The spare, bleak outline of the winter wood, 
The silent little bird whose song is done. 

But hope though silent lives upon the bough. 

Alert she turns her head from left to right. 

Hark! through the melting sky I hear her now: 

She singeth to my heart, " Good-night! Good-night!" 



THE GENTLE HAND 

A certain power there is in every hand 
When gently laid upon one as in love: 
The current that electrical doth flow 
Into another that doth power receive. 



So 'twas in the anointing; not the oil 
But virtue going out that one hath healed. 
And strength renewed in touch so personal 
Is felt by all; though cause remains concealed. 



■* 



Golden Winged Days 155 

ATMOSPHERE 

Into a home there came a lovely flower 
(Twas sent by some one who had points to gam) 
'Twas felt to be a harbinger of ill 
*Twas met with coldness and with sad disdain. 

Its petals, fragrant, large and wide and full, 
Extending out and reaching for the light. 
Began to slowly fade and shrink and fall. 
Till one by one they vanished from sight. 

The branches too, all green and beautiful — 
At chill disfavor daily round them spread — 
Seemed cruelly to feel the atmosphere: 
Soon branches, flower, stem and leaf were dead. 

NOCTURNE 



The fairy forests on my window-pane 
That every morning fill me with delight 
Are wrought by facile fingers. Ah, so light 
The tracery of silver thereupon! 



II 



Whence come the little spirits through the dark ? 
From freezing cold of far away Northland; 
Each bearing on his back and well in hand 
His stencil and his^tube of white, for work. 



156 Golden Winged Days 

III 

He lays them soft — no one shall ever know 
How rapidly he plies his blithesome trade! 
None shall molest and none shall make afraid, 
Till finished : frosty picture fair in snow. 



THE CAVE OF THE WINDS 



The cave is haunted by the winds 
Where, like the specters of the dead, 
They sadly through the darkness roam. 
Hark! Hear you not their plaintive wail ? 
As through the stony corridors 
They sigh and sob, and shivering 
Proclaim their endless misery: 



The pain of parting from their own, 

The grief for unforgiven sins. 

The penitence and heavy woe, 

The thoughts that nevermore will down, 

Re-echoing from wall to wall: 

And with sustained and anguished cries 

Fill underworld with mystic sighs — 

Strange, surging sounds, that sink and rise: 

A sad lament that never dies. 



Golden Winged Days 157 

Group viii 

JANUARY DAWN 

How silently the day steals slowly on! 
The flick'ring lamps of village one by one 
Grow dim and die. Far out across the snow 
The stillness broods and comforteth the earth. 

Behold! Whence cometh radiant, roseate glow 
Wide circling all the heavens, illumining 
As from the face of God, rejoicing world ? 

It is the matchless Dawn, who openeth 
And spreadeth wide her wings; and far beyond 
The ken of man, to boundless realms of space 
(Extended arms and quivering in flight) 
Doth soar, and scattereth particles of light. 



THE BEQUEST 

There's something in the heritage of honored name; 
To be accosted and deferred to for the sake 
Of one who left an unforgotten mark on earth, 
And was beloved for work he hath accomplished. 
The rough, uncouth, unlettered that hold 
You meritorious for that dear one's sake; 
And so regard you still with reverence 
Because you haply bear insignia of birth 
From such a sire. Ah, heritage most blessed, 
Such name; above the price of rubies and of pearls. 



158 Golden Winged Days 

MT. SHASTA 

Oh, as the snow upon the mountain top 

Doth melt and through the vale in rivulet 

Precipitantly downward purling come, 

So stand I on the summit of my grief. 

Till neath thy gen'rous magnanimity 

My frozen feelings slow disintegrate: 

How doth my ice-bound heart dissolve in tears! 

What need hath earth of all the chilly snows 
That crown the mountains through the weary years ? 
No need save as in crystal drops they come — 
The water falls refreshing fields below. 

And oh, what need have I of cruel pain 
Save that it may take form of kindly sigh ? 
A sympathy for those who low remain 
In shadow and in silence of the vale. 



IN DOING DEEDS COMMENDABLE 

There are three acts that do become a man 
To leave behind him e'er he quits this earth: 
A house that hath been builded by his hand, 
A youth that hath been trained to his will, 
A tree that hath been planted by his spade. 
So done he knows that round him he hath shed 
A blessing on the swiftly coming age: 



Golden Winged Days 159 



BUILDING 



The house that I have built doth stand 

Before me like a monument 

To all my aspiration here 

Of calm domestic life, content. 



Oh, how the windows graciously 
Flood lavish light on walls and floors ! 
Like welcoming which runneth where 
There open wide the friendly doors. 



The very chairs do so extend 
Their arms in generosity. 
They give to all a noble pledge- 
A guerdon: hospitality. 



A kind of warming welcoming 
It cometh from the earth below 
And riseth to high turret there) 
Doth permeate and whisper low. 



As though it were of rooms a part, 
And shared by building and by land 
(So spread it is around my seat) 
Dear house I've built with mine own hand! 



i6o Golden Winged Days 

II 

TRAINING 

My Jock is but a merry lad 
With little thought for wisdom's ways. 
But mind he hath, and so I strive 
Oft to improve his futile days. 

If he but learns! aye, there's the rub 
(For Jock hath not a mind to learn) 
Oh, I will give the moments fleet; 
And I will guide and I will train. 

Some day, some day — ah glorious hour! 
(His brain no longer running rife) 
I may perchance see Jock a man 
Full panoplied for useful life. 

Ill 

PLANTING 

Beneath the shining sky on sward of green 
The soft and fragrant earth I slow upturn. 
And low I measure there (deep spade I sink) 
A cavity for roots of sapling oak. 

For sure return of life I watch and sigh. 
I see at last my tree revivify! 
A sign which visible my branch doth yield 
That verdant, it will gladden all the field. 



Golden Winged Days i6i 

Group ix 

GALERIE D'APOLLON 

I passed within the Louvre and wandered there 
Through galleries that led I know not where. 
I came upon an alcove lined with red: 
I stood before the statue of a god. 

Divine Apollo! calm of form and face, 
A creature filled with quiet, supple grace. 
Thou dost, within, a mighty strength reserve: 
A power for great occasion still preserve. 

One movement of thy lifted finger, fraught 
With meaning as of deep and godlike thought; 
One turn of head, denoting that thy sight 
Is cognizant of all beneath its light; 

One swiftly glancing smile, as if in man 
Thou seest being for diversion giv'n; 
And then thou passest on indifferent. 
Apollo's bow on other forms is bent. 



THE CATHERINE-WHEEL AT CHARTRES 

I linger long within the shadowed aisles 

Of ancient Chartres, as night comes slowly on; 

And fix my eyes in transport on the wall 

Where famous Catherine window glows and gleams. 



1 62 Golden Winged Days 

Sapphires and rubies glinting with the light 

Of sunsets soon forgot and radiant days 

That dazzled through their pure transparency, 

Now in the gloaming (like some faint remembered dream) 

Soft, soft reflect their heavenly coloring! 

What are the thoughts inspired by sight like this 
Celestial window ? Through the ages there 
In old cathedral, every day and night 
The wheel doth bloom and glow and burn 
And flame; and slowly melt in dying fire. 

It meaneth more to soul than symphony, 

That only stirs the pulse to quicker beat. 

It meaneth life eternal in its lines 

Of intricate and perfect grace. No less 

It meaneth, in the tints reflected there 

Of matchless color, all that heaven can hold 

Of love eternal, human and divine! 



THE REFINING TOUCH 

In music, grief is often vocalized. 

The bird in meshes caught with broken wing 

Hath joy at heart forever sacrificed; 

But sweeter far its note for tender ring! 

Alas, one little soulless bird doth sing 
Within his cage a meaningless refrain: 
So doth the poet who hath naught to bring 
But piping notes content, untouched by pain. 



Golden Winged Days 163 

LOVE'S EQUIVALENT 

The gold of Mexico in value stands 
(Although denomination be the same) 
Below the currency of other lands: 
Its worth lies largely in its glit'ring name. 

And so it is with love's equivalent: 
But small percentage of love's joy is found 
(The recompense Recamier sought) in fame — 
One, coin of heaven; one, metal of the ground. 

MY STRADIVARIUS 

moulded instrument of mellow trees, 
There sleepeth here how many melodies 
Within thy timbers frail, diaphanous! 

Thy songs may never from their death-like sleep 
Awake, nor even stir in slumber deep. 
Till Love doth call they lie low, passionless. 

1 think upon thy powers and hold thee now. 
Impelled by love my fingers grasp the bow — 
Close to my heart, my Stradivarius! 

With what caresses light I touch thy string, 
And strain my ear for note I long to bring: 
The secret song my heart may ne'er confess. 

What thoughts, that in expression verbal fail, 
From thee are outward drawn in trembling wai 
(Consenting thou, with greater willingness.) 



164 Golden Winged Days 

First incoherent, fanciful and faint; 

Then wavering still, but freer from constraint. 

(Come gently now, my Stradivarius!) 

Breaks forth triumphant song (my thoughts repeat;) 
And shattered like the waves, falls at my feet 
A crest and diamond shower all glorious! 



Group x 
CHERRIES 

"Be grateful for small benefits." 

Teaching of the Vedas. 

In gratitude for trifling benefits 
The Hindus hold as emblem, cherries, red, 
As most significant of mercy still 
From God above to erring, wayward men. 

So do I mind a little gift from thee 

Of wooden cup adorned with favored fruit. 

Tis not the gift ('twere small and trifling too) 

But cherries may denote my gratitude. 

WHERE STAND THE HOUSEHOLD GODS 

The family hearth should be the countenance 
That doth express the honor of the home; 
And it should be kept clean, immaculate, 
Without a vestige that suggests the sod. 



Golden Winged Days 165 

Or, as the Romans in their opulence, 
(And in their poverty 'twas even so) 
Placed image of their gods on either hand. 
So Christian hearth should be kept holy too. 



ALLAH IS HIS NAME 



The Orient hath many treasures there 
Of deftest hand-work, and of value rare. 
But one I mind — a certain Rug of Prayer 
Which fingers dark, and dusky midnight eyes 
Have wrought in magic out of matchless dyes,- 
Doth, like a new creation, still surprise. 



II 



Fair fabrics filled the space, but of them all 
(Which hung extended on a chosen wall. 
Where light was regulated and could fall 
In slanting ray upon each roseate part) 
My rug was fairest. By devoted heart 
Designed, that one might kneel and pray apart 



III 



It was a vision brought by fairy wand; 

A texture woven by some hidden hand; 

It was a dream from far-off summerland. 



1 66 Golden Winged Days 

It was a tale of hours of happy toil: 
Creation, exquisite of golden foil 
In convolution and in slender coil. 



IV 



Here were the purple threads of amethyst; 
And there faint, dewy touches like the mist; 
Here flood of color no one may resist. 
There was the figment fine where pattern stops 
And endeth suddenly in ruby drops — 
As if Imagination now exhausted, droops 



While bordered all around was marvelous frieze ^ 

Which no man's brain could waking e'er devise — 

O'er all a tender sheen, when moved by breeze. 

The races must but follow single course: 

None may excel in knowledge, art and force. ^ 

Of beauty, Daghestan doth hold the source. ^ 



HUMILITAS 



Oh I delight, with long dishevelled hair 

And garments loosely thrown around my form, 

That leave me free with arms and shoulders bare, 

To so rebuke the oft disdainful Muse! 

She Cometh not when I do most prepare. 



Golden^ Winged^Days 167 

II 



How strange is she — my whilom visitor — 
Who doth refuse to sit in solemn state. 
And like as not she turns inquisitor 
When I have other things to think about: 
For converse chooses inconvenient hour. 



Ill 



She mandate makes, and orders ne'er rescinds 
" It must be so. I shall not tarry, else. " 
So braided locks are given to the winds. 
And downward falleth garments in a heap: 
" Oh, any perch will do, a seat that lends. " 



IV 



" I do not love you much," I stern reply, 
** But you are useful to my purpose, hence 
I give you ground of vantage while you're nigh. 
Begone when you have had your saucy say! 
I'm ready any time to give good-bye. " 



She garbles o'er some meaningless refrain: 
" Alack, you do not love me! Well-a-day, 
To you the loss; to me the blessed gain." 
And then with mocking laughter turns to go — 
But sends a parting shot to long remain: 



1 68 Golden Winged Days 

VI 

Oh, naught doth come to one in cynic mood 
(You may not know me yet my fairest dame) 
But Charon's curse and Lethe's bitter flood. 
Until you learn to love and love to learn 
The earth will not be yours, nor any good. " 

Group xi 

ORIGINAL MS. 

If you but keep it long enough 
'Twill bring you many a sou: 
Since it was new, so high it grew — 
Original MS. 

Its characters so mystical, 
" Appealing" to the sight! 
It is so bright, it is so light — 
Original MS. 

It starts out quite poetical 
And endeth in decline: 
A certain sign, that it is fine — 
Original MS. 

ULYSSES 

The Scylla and Charybdis to poet's left and right 
Are solemn, dull pompos'ty or flippant phrase and trite. 
To steer his course between them a center line he takes- 
Or else on rocks of rhet'ric a wreck of verse he makes. 



Golden Winged Days 169 

PAN 

As little bird whose note is brief 
And finished e'er it is begun, 
So doth he play, and ending soon 
Give to his thought a quick relief. 

The register of bird and man 
Is limited to single bar: 
The rising note returneth where 
Its piping music first began. 

It may not add to melody 
Of planet great or distant star; 
But though it may not float afar 
It yet to one may solace be. 

So pipe sweet Pan and pipe sweet bird. 
And barren fields and thirsty brooks 
And all forsaken bowers and nooks 
Will brighter be where song is heard. 



LATIN LYRIST 

Here's a bumper to old Horace 
As he stands upon my shelf. 
Frowning down in dusty silence- 
So unlike his youthful self! . 

He was young and he was witty 
With a twinkle in his eye; 



170 Golden Winged Days 

He could turn a merry ditty; 
He could breath a lover's sigh. 

So in grateful computation, 

Reck'ning run through many years, i 

(Dormant loves and sleeping fancies, i 

Secret sighs and tender tears,) ] 



All to good old Horace tracing, | 

Would I now this tribute bring: 1 

Horace lives and may he never 
Cease in human hearts to sing!" 



THE SACRIFICE 

The poet's heart is fuel to his genius. 
And unconsumed and inconsumably 
Burns ever on the altar to his god. 
And Love, though unappeased, doth tenderly 
Watch curling flame and smoking sacrifice. 



MY LIBRARY 

The slanting rays of setting sun 
Rest gently on my volumes old. 
Arranged confusedly they run, 
(In Russia leather traced with gold. 
Or brown with age) along the walls : 
They soft absorb the gath'ring gloom — 
The shadowy night that cross them falls 
And filters through the dark'ning room. 



Golden Winged Days 171 

The blood-red letters luminous 

(By painter's art and tooling bright) 

Are clearly visible; no less 

Are vellum volumes, milky white. 

Books silent voices register: 

'Tis Monmouth Geoffrey, through the hall. 

Or Richard of Cirencester, 

Or Virgil, Horace, Juvenal. 

And high above the stately throng 
Are modern notes — like benison: 
The heavy swing, the lithe, sweet song 
Of Browning and of Tennyson. 
But now a hush, as night comes on, 
(The fire doth flicker low and fail) 
Naught doth disturb the tender tone 
Of ancient verse and madrigal. 



Group xii 

BENEDICTUS 

With lattice raised I look upon a quiet sky 

Where saileth ship of gold, slow dipping down the West 

On tranquil sea of blue. The beatific calm 

Of scene doth touch and sooth my trembling heart to rest. 

The Benedictus, or the hymn before sunrise, 
That nature sings for worshipper and penitent. 
Doth comfort more than all the droning chants of day 
That heavenward, in appeal by burdened heart, are sent. 



l^2 Golden Winged Days 



IPISSIMA VERBA 

Translations from the classics, pure should be 
Close clinching the original, each word. 
Not leaving to the vain imagining 
Of translator a single false excuse 
To vaunt his folly or his ignorance. 
Oh, any other course doth deviate 
From true simplicity and righteousness 
And intellectual honesty, as well. 
If in the manuscript there is no word 
That to the sentence giveth meaning full, 
So state it frankly — let it go at that — 
And hold thy scholar's craft immaculate. 



IGNIS EST 

To catch the thought while flitting through the brain 
And pinion it with ready, swift intent; 
To harbor in the heart its meaning deep 
Till it hath fashioned form and substance grown — 
These, these are moments sweet to mortal minds. 



For human likeness to the gods is this : 
To understand the mysteries divine 
Which shining moments to our souls reveal; 
And changing revelation into words, 
Give credence to the halting faith of men. 



Golden Winged Days 1 73 



MEDITATION 

How is it as the years go gently by 

New mysteries are opened on my sight, 

That hidden were through all my obdurate life ? 

Revealing day hath dawned from covert night. 

And sounds that I have never heard before 
Appeal anew to long unheeding ear; 
And I am standing on Mt. Carmel's brow 
With seraphim and cloud approaching near. 

An inward vision now doth quicken me, 
And there's a glamour over all below: 
A spell in shadows deep and in the light. 
In tree and flower and early falling snow. 

An inward auditory sense doth hear 
A voice of music — as of lesser thirds — 
In cadence soft of kindly spoken tones; 
And e'en a charm in sound of certain words. 

Tis naught but that divine content of soul 
Which mellowed is by Meditation's breath 
Like as (fore Nature's annual pause for rest) 
Full fruitage followeth the zephyr's path. 



THE NOTE THAT FALLETH LOW 

The day is done. And past the shadow and the gloom 
Of all the weary hours, there lengtheneth 
One note of sweet content. It singeth still 



174 Golden Winged Days 

Within my heart, since it hath fallen low 
From lips all sanctified with love of God. 

gracious song! that given is for comforting. 
What would we do if we should be deprived 
Of ministry so full of solace and of strength ? 
That note that falleth low hath found a place 
Which no appeal, though set with fiery flame 
From tone of orator, may yet secure; 
Nor gain a hearing half so fraught with joy; 
Nor find a welcome so intense and full. 

It lightens too each burden and each pain, 
And pours upon the aching heart a balm 
Like to the blessed balm of Gilead. 

1 grieve that I may never hear that song again. i 
But no; it lingers still and will remain 
Re-echoing in memory forevermore. 



Group xiii 

SISTER ARTS 

There is affinity in all the arts; 
But two have likeness and similitude, 
As fair descendants of one parent stem 
Or strain in stanza and in interlude. 

The arts histrionic and poetic live 
Byi innate sympathy with heart's appeal: 
They spend themselves by what they live upon- 
And yet they perish if they cease to feel. 



Golden Winged Days 175 

So do these arts sincere, interpret life 
As may no other facile instrument; 
And like the harp by breezes played upon, 
Give forth a melody by feeling lent. 



EPISTLE TO THE POETS 

Add to your inspiration clear 
A fine and gentle tact; 

And to your tact add taste supreme, 
Then knowledge add, compact. 



HER LITTLE SERENE HIGHNESS 

My little princess riding in her cart 
Attended by a happy, loving train, 
Doth take the homage given in perfect part 
As heritage she naturally doth claim. 

The children dancing round her in delight, 
The fond old grandam jogging in the rear, 
Are only courtiers w^hich she has by right: 
If she but speaks they hold their breath to hear. 

Reign, little maiden through the sunny hours. 
And brandish high your tiny sceptre now! 
The time may come, when e'en with witching powers 
No vassal humbly at your feet will bow. 



176 Golden Winged Days 

CRADLE SONG 

Lullaby baby, my bird in the nest, 
Mother is near thee to guard and to bless. 
Guarding and blessing and loving am I — 
Lullaby baby dear, lullaby by! 

Softly the fairies come up from the dew, 
Softly their calling my loved one to you. 
Thou art my fairy, and tenderly nigh 
Mother doth tend thee dear, lullaby by! 

Lullaby baby, my bird in the nest. 
Lullaby baby, my fairy at rest. 
Little bird, fairy-bird, fly av^ay far, 
Little boy's sleeping in Slumberland car. 



THE PURITAN AND THE SCOT 

In Highlands of the Scots is found the home 
Of conscience to the European v^orld. 
And in America no spot is know^n 
More true to God than States of Puritan. 

To me hath come a conscience amplified 
By ages of restricted discipline: 
Stern influence maternal from the Scots, 
And from my sires the Puritan constraint. 

The one is typical of old w^orld's power 
To hold in bondage every human thought; 



Golden Winged Days 177 

The other is the frigid element 
That binds America in icy chains. 

But power directed is of highest worth 
And golden, chains that link us to the stars. 
Oh, I would not that honored power disdain 
Nor sever ties with value so replete. 



Group xiv 

LIVING STONES 

In Scotland near the old, historic site 
Of castle that by Robert Bruce was built, 
A homely hut of roughest earth doth stand — 
Constructed clumsily by peasant's hand. 

The ancient builders, though they nothing knew 
Of architecture from its highest view, 
Yet realized the strength and quality 
That still in fallen palace rock might be. 

So, set in walls where one would least expect. 
Are found strange stones all luminous with text. 
Preserved forever in their bed of clay 
And full of beauty. There they safely lay. 

The words of Jesus evermore are set 
(Their wisdom shining forth, lest we forget) 
In writings of the saints; and stand today 
Like living stones surrounded by the clay. 



178 Golden Winged Days 



THE ANGLO-SAXON 

The ancient Caedmon on his dying bed 
Lay watching sunset's slowly fading beams. 
His yellow hair streamed o'er his pillov/ whitt, 
And clasped in prayer his hands on counterpane. 

" The Eucharist," the poet murmured low, 
As wearily he turned from light of day 
And sought for consolation in the cup 
And bread — memorials of his sufF'ring Lord. 

The chalice placed within his trembling hand 
Great Caedmon drank, and lifting holy bread 
To lip, he partly rising said aloud: 
" Receive me Lord ! " and falling back was dead. 



The sunlight resting on the hallowed brow 
Soft kissed away each trace of pain and care 
And left it as though angel hov'ring near 
Had placed upon it seal of blessing there. 



FRIENDSHIP 

There's no foundation for a friendship here; 
For one hath not the truthful principle. 
The basic fact of friendship standeth where 
Is righteousness of individual. 



Golden Winged Days 179 

THE BRIDE OF CHRIST 

What hath he not done to the Bride of Christ — 
The holy Church, whom he trampleth on! 
He hath wounded and hurt and sullied the name 
There should be neither spot nor blemish upon. 

O think of the grief of the Lord himself 
As He looks on the Church for whom He hath died: 
How low she is brought by unthinking souls — 
A name to make sport of, a name to deride. 

Awake thou that sleepest and answer the call; 
The Master demands protection for her 
He loveth so well He hath sacrificed all. 
Go! Raise your right arm, let nothing deter! 



THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL 

Old Lambeth Palace looms against the skies 
Like some enchanted castle of the Moors, 
Or dream in marble wrought. At peace it hes : 
For time and for eternity endures. 

The treasures rare that Lambeth has bequeathed 
Unto the Church may never numbered be; 
As prayers to heaven the holy saints have breathed- 
I may not count them on my rosary. 

Symbolical of angels visits here — 
Memorials which Lambeth Palace holds — 



i8o Golden Winged Days 

Decrees of God, divine and just and pure; 
Insignia of flocks and earthly folds. 

The lost brought safely to the Shepherd's arms 
By men made diligent with anxious cares, 
And laid low at His feet with sad alarms. 
And offered now with suppliant tears and prayers. 

The Palace as it stands aloof, alone 
(A heavenly mansion in material world) 
Bespeaks another House beside a throne. 
When final books of judgment be unfurled. 



I ^ Group xv 

MIRAGE 

There is no elevation in the thoughts 

Which come from closest contact with the world. 

That which doth most appeal to poet's heart 

Lies not in artificiality; 

But rather in the verities of life: 

Primeval calls and deep experiences. 

Or else it may be found in symphonies 
That rise and fall with winds and stormy sea, 
Or whisper in the watches of the night. 
And next to nature for supreme up-lift, 
Is impulse (from a contemplation kind 
Of dire distress) to run and render aid. 



Golden Winged Days i8l 

These things alone touch springs of sympathy: 

They rouse within a joy unspeakable, 

Or purpose strong and high and resolute 

To offer unto God and men their due. 

While contact with the world doth turn from paths 

That nature and that love have glorified. 



THE QUIET HOUR 

I think it is the color in the early morning sky, 
And in the heaping sun-set clouds the brilliant rainbow dye, 
That separate the day in parts and give to each its own 
Distinctive character and worth: the Evening and the 
Dawn. 



The sun at noon hath naught to lend of strange and heavenly 

light 
'Tis full of dazzling brilliancy — resplendent to the sight. 
But where the weird suggestiveness of other life than ours ? 
Its glamour drives the thought away: we faint neath radiant 

powers. 



But softly stealing light that comes upon us unawares 
Doth draw contemplative away the thought from human 

cares. 
Or slowly sinking setting sun! how hallowed in thy might 
Thou dost so gently lead us on into the shades of night. 



1 82 Golden Winged Days 



CREATION 



The first man Adam was made a living soul. " 

—St, Paul. 



Their presence twain doth animate the place 
(As yet no children needed in their close) 
He with his dome-like forehead full of thought; 
She — fleeting smile and cheek of tinted rose. 



II 



United thus they stand within their gate, 
Complete created couple by the leave 
Of God himself; who hath pronounced them 
A pristine Adam and a virtuous Eve. 



THE NEW CREATION 



>> 



" The second Adam was made a quickening Spirit. 

—St. Paul. 

One generation comes and another passeth by 

And leaveth man established still in sin. 

There is none that loveth God, that worshippeth the Lord; 

There's none that in his heart is pure within. 



But a new creation groans in travail with the birth 
Of a holy and a perfect first-born son : 



Golden Winged Days 183 

The Wonderful, the Prince, the everlasting God, 
The mighty Father who to earth has come. 



In the old man all must die; in the new be made alive. 
And the impulse that doth quicken from the dead 
Is the Spirit of our God who in Jesus hath appeared: 
" The new creation's first-born" as he said. 



THE ORDINANCE SUPREME 

" The Redeemed say so." 

The master passion of the human heart 
Lies not in mortal love; but deeper down 
In that Necessity which actuates 
To all endeavor, strenuous and pure. 

'Tis outraged conscience which doth glow and glare 

And cruel havoc make with purposes 

And plans of men. Why must we in despair 

Forever look above and see no sign. 

Nor kind acknowledgement of our estate, 

Nor re-assurance ehat our God doth live ? 

Yet we believe His Word doth prove thus much. 

The Powers we know are round us evermore. 
Their presence fills our lives with influence 



184 Golden Winged Days 

Supernal; yet we cannot tell from whence 
The influence comes. O knowledge true of Self! 
(Those rights all personal — inviolate — 
That sacred are to every single soul) 
What is that Ego but the instrument 
On which the spirits of the dead may play 
To guide, if but obeyed to ways of peace ? 
Or if but slightly spurned to drive us on 
And downward to Inferno's very realm ? 

He giveth angels charge concerning us. 
Somewhere, somewhere there mindful liveth one 
Who lightly on the chords of entity 
For every man doth play, and moveth him 
This way and that; and bribeth him to feel 
Himself free-agent still. Whate'er it be. 
His guardian angel, messenger of God, 
I know not who or what; but recognize 
That man must bend and sway and yield himself 
To holy influence or be destroyed. 

Come angels then and ministers of grace 
And lift me to your heights of heavenly hope! 
That I may nevermore despair nor grieve, 
Nor e*en succumb to miseries of earth. 
And render strength divine to hand and heart 
That in life's conflict I may never fail, 
Nor vanquished be by trivialities. 
Nor faint forgetful of the Verities. 
But find the joy of living to obey 
My sacred Duty's supreme ordinance. 
What e'er I need of heavenly ministry, 
O spirits of the dead made perfect, send 
To keep me in fixed purpose to the end! 



Book III — Immortality 
TESTIS 



Man sleeps and In sorrow doth rise; 
He treadeth the wine-press alone. 
He lifteth his eyes to the cold, silent skies- 
There is none whom he knoweth his own. 



II 



Within him he lowereth his eyes; 
Naught seeth, but something returns. 
A voice low replies : " The Ego ne'er dies- 
So He liveth for whom thy soul yearns. ' 



FINALE 

Why should I die when I have just begun to live .? 
The portals of the sky are op 'ning wide and high- 
Why should I die ? 

The vistas far and free new daily visions give; 
The violet star to sight a soft and trembling light. 
On comes the night. 

185 



1 86 Golden Winged Days 

The night! the night! Oh, vanished rosy dawn and bright! 
Oh, pure and passing star! Oh, life's departing light! 
Oh, darkness deep! Oh, night! 



MAGNUM OPUS 



Complete my work! Life's single aim doth center all in this. 

O that I might forever live! My passion is for toil. 

The brain doth move with force and might when prompts a 

motive high, 
And e'en the palsied hand obeys when driven by power 

within. 
Ah, labor is its own reward — seeks naught save perfect work; 
But time is finite and the mind must in its limits move. 
Then blessed, peaceful rest; mayhap annihilation comes. 

II 

Cut bono?** cries the soul, " Must man in labor, life and 
love 

Delighting for a single day, renounce them at the grave ? 

Not so! Appreciation's terms alone shall gauge his joy; 

And his capacity for life, all that may e'en limit him. 

When he has reached the bounds of Nature's full endow- 
ment kind. 

She gives him soft release; and ushers into wider fields. 

There in amazement he doth stand. He sees before him 
things 

Of which in its imaginings, his heart hath ne'er conceived. 



Golden Winged Days 187 

III 

** Cut bono?*' Ah, thrice blessed good! This life is all of 

good 
Since wisely and by laws of God, life strangely makes the 

soul 
Fit for conditions higher still. Right joyous on we go! 
We claim life's blessings as we pass. And with reluctant 

hands 
Slow loose our hold on things of earth: as child doth drop his 

toys, 
To sleep in mother's arms, and moving in his happy dreams 
Hears voice remind him of the morn when he shall wake and 

find 
New joys forever round his path, with promises of larger 

gifts 
In keeping with his dignity as perfect, full-grown man. 



IV 

Man's finished work is laid aside. He knows no restless 

fears: 
For on him now is Nature's hand, and o'er his head the stars. 
He biddeth earth a long farewell — lies down to pleasant 

dreams — 
And softly sighs and gently sleeps; and smiling as he sleeps 
He rests in glorious hope, through Christ, of immortality. 



1 88 Golden Winged Days 

V 

It may be in the interstices of the stars 
Amidst the myriad and the varied forms of life 
Some high intelligence there is that hath control 
For every sep'rate star some sovereign prince. 



VI 



O one hath said, " I long to guide and mould 
The great affairs of nations on the earth. " 
And when he passes to another sphere 
He yet doth hope some planet in the skies 
To have entrusted solely to his care. 
Yet he hath not himself e'en well in hand 
And how could he aught human or divine 
Improve and model, on defective plan ? 



VII 



It seemeth unto me an evidence 

Of God's supreme design for men 

That we should have ourselves and small affairs 

Belonging to ourselves, to guide on earth; 

That those who most by wisdom here below 

Do show themselves prepared (when called hence) 

Shall so be given the guardianship of worlds; 

Arid realize indeed that destiny 

For which from the beginning they were formed : 

Their magnum opus so shall they attain 

When they ascend to nature of their God. 



Book IV — Love Songs 



LOVE'S ESSENCE 

Oh, what is love ? Oh, what is love ? 
Giving, receiving nothing, nor complain. 
Asking for light, yet willing be 
In deepest darkness to remain. 
Finding no joy where thou art not, 
A sorrow in thine absence, though a gain 
In happiness: for certainty of thy return. 
This, this alone is love. All else is vain. 



RHAPSODY 



Where wast thou love, when I in golden fields 
Roamed merrily, or sought for giant foes 
At rain-bow*s end; or midst the honey-bees 
Found sweets to tempt me from my garden close ? 



II 



O somewhere in the large and boundless world 
Thou then did'st live in bright and happy youth. 
Oh, did'st thou dream of me and sigh in vain 
For one who was — but lost to thee, in sooth ? 

189 



iqo Golden Winged Days 

III 

Or sane and frank, wast thou, from mystic claim 
Of soul connection with another, free ? 
Nor found in boyhood's merry careless day 
Room for a lover's dream of bride to be ? 



IV 



Enough! thou comest now a man to me. 

I am no longer jealous of that day 

When I was nothing to your restless need: 

And all you loved was thoughtless, joyous play. 



Thou fold'st me here in large and manly hold 
Of loving arms and tender sweet embrace. 
Enough! enough! I linger near thy way — 
I am content to look upon thy face! 



LOVE'S PASSING 



The day love died within my heart 
I do not know, I cannot tell; 
His silent passing was not marked 
By mournful sound or funeral knell. 



Golden Winged Days 191 

II 

He passed. The smile upon his face 
Deceived the watchers, with them me; 
They did not know he even slept, 
That he was dead I could not see. 



Ill 



Till waking from a dreadful dream 
I saw Love stretched upon his bier. 
I buried him without a sigh. 
"He's dead," I said, without a tear. 



IV 



The sting that hides in cruel words 
Will put to flight the truest love. 
And when it strikes its sure to kill 
The little Spirit from above. 



WILL|0' THE|WISP 



Love is a strange mysterious thing, tra la la! tra la la! 
It's likely ever to take wing, tra la la, tra la la! 
And if your love has come to an end, tra la la! tra la la! 
And you have gone further than you intend, tra la la; tra la la! 



192 Golden Winged Days 

II 

The only way so far as I see, tra la la! tra la la! 
(The secret I'll tell 'twixt you and me) tra la, la! tra la la! 
Just skip the town as fast as you can, tra la la! tra la la! 
Tell her you've gone to meet a man, tra la la, tra la la! 

Ill 

She'll hopefully watch for you every day, tra la la! tra la la! 
But don't be dismayed by this I pray, tra la la, tra la la! 
Write her a line that you've missed the train, tra la la! tra 

la la! 
And probably you will ne'er meet again, tra la la, tra la la! 

IV 

The lass will weep a few tears I ween, tra la la ! tra la la ! 
But she'll get another as fast as she can, tra la la, tra la la! 
For maids are just like men you know, tra la la! tra la la! 
They never do love but a day or so, tra la la ! tra la la ! 



LONGING 

For thee my heart is waiting. 
I wait, for thee I sigh! 
For thee my heart is pining — 
To meet thee e'er I die. 

Oh, thou dost read my meaning 
In voice, in sigh, in tear; 



Golden Winged Days 193 

And thou alone art bringing 
The word I long to hear. 

The wind, the cloud, the tempest 
Are threatening every hour 
To part us soon forever — 
The storm e'en now doth lower! 

So tarry not beloved — 

O leave me not alone! 

For if too long delaying 

Thy foot-steps may not come! 



DAPHNE 

'Tis *leven o' the clock, and light still gleams 
From out the window of my little Love; 
While I stand silent now beside her gate 
And ponder on the mysteries above. 

Around her in the day there ever shines 
A soft effulgence, as of radiance 
Outstripping e'en the sun and making it 
Diminish and appear like darkness dense. 

Oh, in the night, when from my presence flown, 
She vanisheth like Dryad into grove. 
But see! she holdeth shining torch aloft 
To so entice me should I chance to rove. 



194 Golden Winged Days 

MORTAL LOVE 



O I was fit to fill my heart 

With passion so divine 

That heaven and earth it's vast resource 

Could nevermore contain. 

II 

But love passed on and left me here 
As one whose simple song 
Could not be heard in orchestra 
Of earthly chorus strong. 

Ill 

I'll tune my lyre and sing awhile 

To wierd and mystic sound — 

ril set my sight upon the sun; i 

ril rise from off the ground: 

SPIRIT LOVE 



The spell is broken and he comes no more 
For whom my soul but yesterday did long. 
Think you that I have lost or given o'er 
The dear delights that round his presence throng ? 



Golden Winged Days 195 

II 

Ah, though I may not see him face to face, 

Nor evermore by voice be comforted, 

I still shall feel anew that kindly grace, 

Though one I mourn be numbered with the dead. 

Ill 

Strange that I count his nearness to my soul 
In just the measure that he lives again 
One set apart and sanctified and whole 
And diverse widely from the run of men. 



IV 



The part of him that most is of this earth 
Hath naught responsive found akin in me. 
Tis spirit of the man which draws me on — 
The part which is divine in him I see. 



So stay or go it ever is the same, 
My satisfaction and my hope are sure; 
For I have met and now I know and claim 
My Spirit love, all holy, cleansed and pure. 



APPRECIATIONS 

'Tis'not that I am keeping the heart thou gavest me — 
'Tis not in love returning my heart goes out to thee; 



196 Golden Winged Days 

*Tis what thou art, my dear one, what now thou givest me: 
Reflections of thy being, large full and strong and free! 

It would not do for me to tell you all I feel; 
For then the bitterness of death would come 
To you as well as me. And that rare intercourse 
Of mind and heart which now exists between us twain 
Would be forever rent; and you would banished be 
From out my sight. While I alas, would in my stress 
And poverty of soul, pour out my grief alone, 
In darkness and in silence of the night. 

So stay beloved by my side awhile, 

And hold me by enchantment of thy word — 

So kind and gentle and beneficent 

That I would listen though I may not know 

Or hear more than the cadence of thy voice. 

Alas that human weakness so imperative 
Demandeth still to learn what is the depth 
To which your heart (which seemeth moved) is stirred — 
Or if perchance it may be stirred at all! 

I put the thought far from me and I bend 
To Fate's decree that thou and I good friends 
Shall be, and nothing more; while influence strange 
Which followeth me as coming from thy soul 
Shall be as though it were not, and had never been. 

From this time on the common-place of life 
The watch-word evermore between us twain. 



Golden Winged Days 197 

May'est thou through all thy length of days rejoice — 
The sky is fair for you dear and for me! 

THE KISS RETURNED 

Cold is the kiss that only is returned 
For one in love and adoration given; 
Tis like reply of v^ind from cruel North 
To salutation of a breeze from heaven. 



THE GIFT 

I need your love far more than anodyne 
To drive away the pain of heart and head, 
ril gather now the withered flowers and dead — 
ril treasure them no more, those gifts of thine. 

It nothing meaneth to my penitence 
When you upon me empty emblems shower 
Expressive of eternal love whose power 
For you existeth not in any sense. 

Ah, give me gifts that worthy are of you 
And of that love you once professed and felt, 
When in a passion of humility you knelt 
And thine own Soul didst offer me anew! 



MY PLACE 

With opening door comes inquiry 
Solicitous of me : 



igS Golden Winged Days 

" Hath she returned to her home ? 
Where can my loved one be ? '* 

And oft I hide me from his sight 
Just to remembered be: 
That inquiry, that inquiry 
Solicitous of me! 

MY PART 

** No one is there if you're not there. " 
Ah, doleful chord in symphony! 
It droppeth from a solemn strain 
To one of plaintive euphony. 

The message shall not be unheard — 
I rise, I run, I'm flying thence: 
I'll go beloved if that is all 
It takes to make an audience! 

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE 

The symbols of the love he beareth me 
Are ever found in precious gifts concealed; 
(Significance but partially revealed 
To one alone who hath the eyes to see.) 

Three thoughts are constant in finality, 
And by their sweet insistnece strengthen troth: 
They tell of dear Remembrance and of Truth, 
And intimate love's Immortality. 

Ah, wee and dainty flower *for-get-me-not. 
And tender lover's tie of ribbon blue, 



Golden Winged Days 19Q 

Ye vivify and evermore renew 

And consecrate allegiance of thought. 

And golden, floating wing of butterfly, 
(That to the ancient Greeks hath meant so much) 
How do ye bring me into sacred touch : 
Love's precious hope of immortality. 



THE MOMENT PSYCHOLOGICAL 

The moment psychological 

(The golden opportunity 

To close unite our shattered hearts) 

Arrived; but could not last. 

It came, (your Reason logical 

Resisted importunity) 

It paused — a minute point of time — 

It went forever past. 



PARADISO 

Tve traveled a long road to reach your heart: 
Through years of desert sand Tve tread my way, 
IVe halted by the springs to weep and pray — 
Repined at distance keeping us apart. 

But now the gates approaching, once within, 
I find they slowly swing and hold rae there. 
I offer song of praise (unlike the prayer 
Upon my parched lips) and enter in! 



200 Golden Winged Days 

SONATA APPASSIONATA 

Across the memory of years comes echoing strain. 
Persistent, pulHng at my heart it draws me on, 
A Hving voice I hear through melody sublime. 
List! It intones my name — impelling me to come. 



Cease. Cease. I hear thee not. Speak not one word 

again. 
Tis vain. Unanswered thy despair and wild appeal. ] 

In momentary calm, I waver not nor fear: \ 

And fair response from me thou find'st unuttered still 
O call me not! Thy distant voice unheard shall be — i, 

For I have gone and to return no more. 



Remaineth naught but this: that thou dost know 
The anguish and the struggle of my soul 
At call of thee; and that thou pittiest me. 



What now befalleth thee ? Alone art thou ? 
A duplicate in suffering of me ? 
My well-beloved! Silent One, art dead ? 
What wilt thou then in mercy have me do ? 
Awake! Awake! Or dying call to me, 
And falling on thy corse I gladly follow thee! 



Golden Winged Days 201 

VIOLETS 

To be so loved doth make the blushes come. 
(Oh, he is just as coy as any maiden is; 
And would not tell it for the world — 
That secret, silent, sacred love of his.) 

And more especially he hides from me 
The sentiment he would not desecrate; 
Dissembleth he in such deceptive guise 
As rose-bud dropping random at my feet. 

Or snowy, fair, w^hite shawl (embroidered o'er 
With lover's knots that furnish a surprise: 
Suggestive of the nature of his love) 
With which to greet my happy, wondering eyes. 

I would not love thee, dear — nay half so much 
Were I of thine affection only sure 
By blair of trumpets or monotonous sound 
Of loving protestation o'er and o'er. 

The rather would I choose to be beloved 
In quiet, manly fashion all thine own, 
Which recognition scarcely may receive — 
So little to observer is it shown. 

In violets that lie beside me here 

(Without one word save that which blossoms tell) 

I, like an adept, see thine offering: 

Symbolical of all thou wouldst reveal. 



202 Golden Winged Days 

TRIOLOGY 
I 

Estrangement 

All youth is now forever gone from me 

Since I no longer can restrain my tears. 

I've garnered all my smiles and given to thee; 

And naught remains but grief throughout the years. 

The shadow in the light of perfect love 

Is due to prescience of jealous heart; 

And like the dial in the light of sun 

Doth shade malignant cast of gloom athwart. 

CHORUS 

Never kiss me dear again, 

'Till Love touches soft your lip 

(Oh, a shadow in its light is hanging o'er!) 

I will wait in patience still — 

I will sit low at your feet — 

I will on my face lie prostrate at your door. 

II 

Reconciliation 

Peace is restored. And out upon the field 
I look to see my love swift crossing it. 
'Tis not that a concession he doth yield — 
'Tis not that I am dear and doubted it; 



Golden Winged Days 203 

'Tis that the scales have fallen from my eyes 
And I can see his perfect love's bequest. 
My heart doth sing and leap in glad surprise: 
I see myself a being all too blest! 



Ill 

Perfect Love 

There's never been a question of my love, 
And yet — and yet — if very truth were known 
I have a love more truly love today 
Than e'er my heart would e'en confess to own. 

Oh, it hath been a recognition calm; 
And it hath been quiescence deep and blest — 
Acknowledgement of virtues manifold 
That gave to me a certain sense of rest. 

But now comes new-born love to re-info rce 
(As if in hands of strength it held my soul) 
Its law divine, to animate my life 
And make it fruitful, rich, intense and whole! 



PART THIRD 



THE HUNT 

An Idyll of the Field 

Part i 

The background for the hunter's tale 
Is EngHsh manor, old and beautiful. 
Within, a palace filled with works of art; 
Without, demesne extending far and wide. 

The Hall was built in centuries long past: 

In time of Conquest, when the Normans bold 

O'er-ran the British Isles 

And vanquished native Britons in their holds; 

And *stabHshed moated castles midst 

The wooded wilds, well fortified. 

The first of this great House was one 
Who came with William to those shores. 
He fought beside his monarch brave; 
And as reward received this estate 
Of fair extent and beauty unsurpassed. 
And then his sovereign knighted him. 
That *mongst the people of the realm 
This subject might have reverence supreme 
From lord and serf alike. 

Now since that olden time so long ago 
Hath sprung a race of noble sons who claim 
The Dunloe heritage: 
A fair demesne and name all glorious. 

The Castle too has changed. 
And added to its massive walls 



207 



2o8 Golden Winged Days 

Are many more abutments great, 
Projecting out from every side. 
And over all impenetrable green: 
The ancient ivy vines in festoons trail, 
Or fall in curtains from o'erhanging eaves. 
Or cling insistently to door and window-ledge. 

Around the castle runs the moat, 
With still its drawbridge old; 
Where came the knights in former time 
To seek a refuge from their foes. 
But now no longer raised is the bridge 
When strangers cross the moat and enter in: 
Fixed to its place it long hath stood; 
And fixed forever shall remain. 



Song of the Wildwood 



Mid scenes of sylvan beauty 
Extending round those walls, 
The elves and fairies nightly 
Dance to the water-falls. 



II 



They dance and sing and whirling 
Seek flowers where dew is found; 
And sweet refreshment drinking 
Trip lightly o'er the ground. 



Golden Winged Days 209 

III 

They quaff to joy of lady, 
They pledge to health of lord; 
And e*er the dawn is breaking 
They flit beyond the ford. 

Within the Hall are chambers wide 
That lead, now here to open balconies; 
And there to vast ancestral galleries 
Where hang the portraits of the dead: 
Those young Sir Knights and ladies fair 
Who once with gallantry and grace 
Moved joyously among these scenes. 
But ah! long since they've given o'er 
Their armor bright and laces exquisite 
To these inheritors of all. 

The sons have stacked within the Armory 
The helmets bronze, and now long rusted swords. 
But with the laces that came down to them 
And precious pearls of Ophir — jewels rare — 
The daughters of the house adorn themselves. 

But now 'tis season of the Hunt. 
And guests from far and near 
Have gathered at the Hall; 
Some with a retinue of servants trained 
To do their master's slightest will, 
And some from far across the seas 
Who gayly mock at feudal ways. 

And much is going on below the stairs 
Of surmise and of wonderment 



2lo Golden Winged Days 

Concerning one who hath but just arrived: 
*La Belle American.' 
For so amidst the courteous throng 
Was Rosalind Randolph called; 
And servants picking up the name, 
Now knew no other than the one 
That had been given her in loving jest 
By youthful lord, and Lady Grace, 
Her kindly welcoming hosts. 

The company invited to the Meet 
Had not its equal in the land: 
The ladies for their beauty and their wit, 
The men for gallant courtesy. 

And one among them — lovliest of them all — 
The fair American was there. 
(For Rosalind, the friend of Lady Grace, 
Invited was through the Ambassador; 
And with her aged aunt *the dowager,' 
Had left her distant home across the seas 
And come to give these sombre walls 
Effulgence of her presence bright). 



La Belle American 



O she is sweet to look upon! 

Her face of oval, pure; 

Her starry eyes drooped low and meek; 

Her manner mild, demure. 



Golden Winged Days 2ii 

II 

With just a touch of coquetry 
As if to ask perchance 
Why one should find a single grace 
In her, or in her glance! 

Ill 

She smiles, and all the youths around 
Join trembling in her train. 
She is the princess of the Hall — 
La Belle American! 



Among the men of courtly mien 

Was one, the heir and lord of all, 

Who with his sister. Lady Grace, 

Oft sought the side of fair American. 

He had been all around the world : 

And softly pouring in her list'ning ear 

His story marvelous. 

Had filled her with amazement at his tales 

Of wondrous sights and incidents 

And harrowing escapes. 

And oft she heard him breathlessly; 

And sweet her converse low, 

As with her eyes upon the ground, 

She listened to the stranger's voice. 

And pondering these things within her heart 

In restless dreams she saw him striving still 

Arrayed against the dragons in the field. 

Or vanquishing some dark and dangerous foe. 



212 Golden Winged Days 

Of Norman Blood is He 



Tall, straight and dark; a man of might, 

With strength enough for three, 
Lord Dunloe ever strove to win: 
* Of Norman blood is he!' 



II 



His crest still bore the strange device 
From sires of ages past. 
In Latin writ: '* I strive to win 
Where e'er my lot is cast. " 



III 



He strives to win ? Ah, none gainsaid 
What strife there soon would be; 
But he must win and win he will: 
*Of Norman blood is he!' 



Part ii 

Assembled all the guests within the Hall. 
And each had donned his gayest hunting garb. 
The men with high-top boots and cracking whips 
Make gallant sport, while loud their laughter rings. 
The ladies each with gay and merry voice. 
Prepare in suitable attire to join the chase; 



Golden Winged Days 213 

And in their habits dark and close appear 
Like portraits, which ancestral line the walls. 

Anon is heard the heavy bray of hounds 
Which in the hands of keepers still remain; 
While pulling at their ropes they drive and run 
And howling, long to follow after prey. 

A clatter on the pavement now is heard, 
As rearing into court the horses come. 
The grooms in reassuring voices call — 
The noble beasts are anxious for the fray. 

The great door swings and pouring down the steps, 
The joyous, merry crowd now seek their steeds. 
And one among them fairer than the rest, 
Doth trembling choose the horse she wills to ride. 

They are all bred to hunting with the hounds 

And none surmise my lady's timid heart, 

Save Roland who now closely at her side 

Sees color fade and only white remain. 

For Rosalind, the fair American, 

Is of a spirit proud yet diffident; 

And none should know though she should die for it 

That she as well as others may not ride. 

The shouts subside while all right busily 
Engaged are with bridle, strap and steed. 
The hounds alone accompaniment do keep 
With braying deep to horses stamping feet. 
Then off they go — a gorgeous, brilliant host 
Comparisoned in red and black and gold 



214 Golden Winged Days 

With here and there a flash of silver white 
Intensifying colors of their garb. 

Moving of the Minions 

"And Duncan's horses beauteous and swift- 
The minions of their race." — Shakespeare, 



Sing ho! for the Hunt and av^^ay we are moving, 
The horse and his rider and fair lady too! 
While leading the train is the brave tawny ranger 
Which panting doth point for the pack, full in view. 

II 

Sing ho, hi hey! for the lord and his ladye! 
Sing hi! for the horses, and ho! for the Danes! 
We are off, we are off! there's no one not ready 
We wait for the morning no longer, my friends! 



Ill 



Sing ho, hi, hey! the dogs are all leading. 
And echo throws back their melodious bray. 
We are off, we are off! no longer we tarry; 
We ride to the hounds at the break of the day! 



The calvacade fast clatters down the drive 
Through avenues of tall and stately trees; 
Till reaching outer limits of the park 



Golden Winged Days 215 

They enter swift along the walled way 
That leads to lodge and to the greater gate. 

Like music now the treading of the hoofs 

Upon the soft and green and sodden earth. 

And all the sounds peculiar to the Court 

Are by the distance hushed, as hunters forward move. 

Ah, there's no spot in all the world 
So sweet as this," thought Rosalind, 
As riding by Lord Dunloe*s side 
She viewed the crumbling stones on either hand 
Close matted o'er with moss; while high above 
The drooping branches from the ancient oaks 
(That in a forest tangle grew; and crowded 'gainst 
And canopied in shadowy green the towering walls) 
Seemed soft to murmur as they shed 
A benediction on her head. 

And now the minions move through massive gate 

That groans on heavy hinge to let them pass. 

And on they go like ordered cavalry 

O'er old-time drawbridge, creaking neath their feet; 

Out into road, which castle rampart circles round. 

And grateful 'twas to Rosalind 

To reach the outer world, where more at home 

She seemed — and less in land of dreams. 

And laughing gay to Roland now she spoke; 

And sat her horse, and rode with graceful ease. 

She even glanced around, 

And took in beauties of the fields; 

And wondered how she could have feared 

An outing such as this of lovely country road 

With hedges lined; into which now they turned. 



I 



A 

2i6 Golden Winged Days ^» 

And thinking thus, in happy mood, 

She slackened slow her gait; and fell behind — 

In maiden meditation, fancy free. 

She rode her gentle steed at halting pace. 

She was not long alone. 

For e'en the flower of English youth had marked her 

charm 
And longed to joy within her radiance; 
But held aloof for Roland's sake. 



Right soon the road was passed, 

And they had reached the open fields; 

Where to her trembling sight 

Long, stubborn walls appeared across the way — 

And these all must be scaled! 

Alas! Alas! She knew not how. 

But she was re-assured; and told with laughing jest 

To 'leave it to the horse — he knew right well 

The business of the hour, and ne'er would fail.' 

So subtly bending her lithe form. 

She touched her steed and lightly scaled the wall; 

Amidst the merry plaudits of her mates. 



And now across the distant fields 
Were echoed baying sounds, which brought 
The maiden's heart to highest beat. 
She feared no more the chase; 
But in the roused excitement of her hosts 
Joined mind and heart and hand. 
And on she rode, as with her slender whip 
She urged her fretting steed. 



Golden Winged Days 217 



The chase was at its height: 

The walls, the fences, brooks — 

All, all were scaled with ease, 

As after hounds the frenzied beasts 

Plunged, reared and ran! And neck to neck 

The animals apace fled on 

To one impelling signal heard: 

The endless baying signal of the hounds. 



The Hunter's Song 



The hunt! the hunt! Shall dogs come home at last! 
Shall hunters — horse and man — all sleep and sleep, alas! 
Survive it if we can, disgrace when all is past! 

II 

The hunt! the hunt! O rise upon the wind 

And follow in the race! Forget those left behind — 

The honor of the chase the only thought in mind! 

Ill 

The hunt! the hunt! O where is sport like this, 

Where all a man is worth is given o'er to bliss 

Which nothing can impair, save death or woman's kiss! 

And now the fields are crossed; 

And only final brook remains for leaping steeds. 



2i8 Golden Winged Days 

They all have passed save Rosalind. 

The danger's slight, there's naught to fear — 

If 'twere not for the battered fence 

Which borders on the opp'site side of stream. 

At this the horse rebels. 

He rears! He doth refuse to spring! 

And Rosalind, exasperate, applies the whip. 

And in a rage the beast gives one bold dash 

And horse and rider are in mid-stream fall'n. 

Oh, touching sight! that slender form 

All battered now and torn 

And tangled in the bridle of her steed, 

Which struggles, panting, midst the foam. 

Gone are her friends. And Rosalind is left alone, 

Till with the eye of quick discerning love. 

Lord Dunloe now doth miss her from the train, 

And glances round to see 

If gay and beautiful, she follows still. 

Oh, sight to break a lover's heart! 
The horse hath given way and fall'n 
Beneath his loved one's form; and she is lost 
Midst cruel waves! He turns and shouts 
And in command bids hunt to cease. 
And with a wildly beating pulse 
He bends his steed to side of stream 
Where all distraught, the maiden lies. 



.1.1 
m 



Golden Winged Days 219 

Part hi 

Not far from scene of sad event 

And just beyond the hedge (which close and high 

Protected it from view) there stood an humble home. 

The house was built of rough hewn logs; and chimney old 

Clung to its side. The roof was low and thatched. 

While all around the roses grew 

In wild profusion, sweet. 

Of all the flowers that bloomed there 

No reckoning could well be made: 

Varieties of plants no longer grown 

On English soil. Quaint, old-time buds 

That mind us of the days of gentle Will. 

An English Garden Old 



The only blossoms that remain of sweet old English growth 

Are periwinkle, lover's blue, and violet for troth. 

Fair Cambridge cHngs to tender hue; and Oxford owns 

the same 
Sweet sentiment in violet — no others do they claim. 

II 

Tis but in garden such as this (oh, memories so dear!) 
Where grow the flowers of the past; once loved and tended 

here. 
The flowers of which the poet sang (in days beyond recall) 
With creepers and with vines which cling to trellis and to 

wall. 



220 Golden Winged Days 

III 

The Maisies pied and violets blue, and lady-smocks all 
silver white/ 

The *cuckoo-buds of yellow hue' — a beauteous garden to 
the sight. 

And queen among them stands the Rose, whose rule is long; 
and e'en today 

The lovliest of them all is she, in garden old or king's high- 
way. 



Within the house an ancient crone of impulse kind 

Presided o'er the meager board. 

And from her corner where she sat and plied her loom 

Oft would she give to strangers coming to her door 

A wond'rous tale of Shakespeare's Love, who once lived 

here: 
The merry *Anne who Hath-a-way,' as poet saith. 

Near Shottery the cottage stood. 

And here they brought the gentle maid — 

America's fair child, 

To place her on a humble couch 

Of old and kindly dame; 

While hast'ning homeward cross the moor 

And meadows far they rode 

To bring physicians, nurses and those things 

Most needed for her good. 

By nightfall all the troop returned 
With|,lovely burden to the Hall; 
And sadly bore her through the gates, 



Golden Winged Days 221 



And upward o'er the marble stair, 
To chamber facing toward the East; 
Where softly there they laid her down. 



Refrain 



Oh, weary hours of illness and of pain, 
Oh, rest that cometh not with night or day, 
Oh, peace which only home and friends may bring, 
Oh, loved ones o'er the ocean far away! ^ 

II 

I cannot sleep, I cannot slumber here; 
My pillow soft a stone doth seem to me! 
The mellow light intended to give ease 
Doth blind my sight — I nevermore may see! 

Ill 

Oh, home and loved ones, could I fly away 
Across the broad and deep and briny sea, 
I ne'er would leave my father's hearth again — 
Could I once more but hear him welcome me! 

IV 

Rest, rest, no rest, I lie in bitter strait; 
Alone, deserted in a foreign land. 
Oh, father hear me! mother dear, come nigh! 
Come! come! or coming not to me. I die." 



222 Golden Winged Days 

Thus in delirium, moaned the suffering maid, 
And all agreed the parents must be called — 
Lest verily in truth the child should die. 
A cablegram was sent, and o'er the wires 
The answer swift returned that one would come 
And bear the maiden back to native land. 

But so it chanced that e'er the day grew old 

(Which followed close upon the fall 

Of horse and rider, fair) 

The patient's strength began to mend: 

She even looked about with smiles 

And asked with wak'ning interest 

Concerning welfare of her gallant steed. 

Consent was given that soon she might receive 
Her anxious host, who hovered near her door, 
And hearing this the color swift appeared 
And stained the deadly pallor of her cheek. 

The days rolled slowly by; and Roland chafed 
At weary, long delay for interview: 
He must, he would see Rosalind 'fore night; 
In truth it was imperative he should. 

A fortnight passed. The fair American 
Had now been gi'en permission to arise: 
And clad in robes of shim'ring blue and white 
The little lady waited for her host. 

It was the twilight hour. 

And wide the casement had been thrown 

To let in balmy breeze. The soft moon-light 



Golden Winged Days 223 

Came filt'ring down through old oak's trembling leaves 
And fell across the maiden sitting there 
Beside the window, pillowed in her chair. 

The great room was abandoned now 
To lovers twain, (by mutual consent 
Of all attendants and of friends) 
And Roland given right of way 
To presence of his lady-love. 

He came; and at the threshold paused 
And gave a signal low, lest Rosalind 
Not hearing him, should startled be. 
And yet she heard him not. 
And standing on the threshold there 
Of room which to his vivid thought 
Seemed full of mystery divine. 
He caught one glimpse of Rosalind, 
And to himself he breathed: 
" More beautiful than I had dreamed; 
More beautiful than angels are!" 
And falling on his knees implored 
That he might never banished be 
From out her presence more. 

Soft, soft, was heard the nightingale. 

As if she sang in sweet response 

To lover's passioned words. 

The spirit of that heavenly song 

Seemed with the heart of Rosalind to plead: 

The voice of lover and of bird 

Were one to her. And resting there 

With moonlight drifting over her, 

She closed her eyes and smiled. 



224 Golden Winged Days 

Song of the Nightingale 



I have lived and loved and v^aited, 
I have borne in silence all! 
I have loved in sorrow ever, 
While thou dost my heart enthrall! 



II 



Lowly, softly, softly, lowly 
To thy heart beyond the wall 
I would sing of love in sorrow. 
Though 'tis silent, love is all! 

Ill 

I have waited. May'st thou ever 
Know true love and suffer less! 
I have loved. Ah, may'st thou never 
Know the pain I now confess! 



Part iv 

Since coming of the Pilgrims to these shores 

Have Randolphs ever been identified 

With movements bearing on their country's good. 

In time of Revolution they had given 

Of their best blood to 'stablish well and strong 

Foundations of Republic, fair. 



Golden Winged Days 225 

And when in later days, the French and Indian wars 
Had needed volunteers, the Randolph sons were there. 
The same was true when Mexico embroiled was 
With native land: the foremost in the field 
Were ever of this House; all loyal they and true 
E*en to the Conflict dire, that families 
Hath severed as it hath hearts. 



Requiem 



Oh, bay leaves bring and spread them here 

0*er graves of heroes dead: 

The lads who passed in happy youth 

To soldiers' marching tread. 



II 



And sing a song to those long gone. 
Who battled for the land 
Which gave them birth; and for it's good 
Sealed all with blood and hand. 



Ill 



They're lying there — the rank and file — 
America's brave sons; 
Our tears now fall upon them all : 
The known and unknown ones. 



226 Golden Winged Days 

IV 

Sleep, sleep, ye brave and noble men, 
Whose span of life was spent 
For all ye held most high and dear, 
Midst battlefield and tent. 

The house in which the Randolphs dwelt 

Was built of stone. 

Upon an eminence it stood 

And view commanded far and wide 

Of little inland sea. 

'Twas fashioned in the old Colonial style: 

With pillared porch, and hallway running through. 

And, like Republic, simple was and strong. 

'Twas made for use and comfort and good cheer 

And gen*rous hospitality. 

The grounds on every side of Forest Home 

Were deeply shaded by the trees — 

Old maples, walnuts, oaks — 

Of every kind indigenous to the soil. 

And some among them stood in stately rank 

Of avenue, from distant gate 

To always friendly open door. 

The paths for lovers had been made: 

So shady, cool and intricate; 

As winding in and out among the trees 

They seemed but to invite to love and loitering. 

And hid among the shadows deep 

Were fountains playing soft at eve. 

And everywhere amidst the grass 

Were blooming flowers of wild varieties : 



Golden Winged Days 227 

Anemone and Indian-root 

And ' Johny-jump-up * blue — 

The kind that little children love 

And search for in the woodland, by the hour. 

Sweet, sweet this home; and sweet the happy days 

That flitted by on angel wings 

To all who gathered there. 

Here often came from foreign climes 

The stranger; and right royally he was received 

By aged Squire, who with his gentle Dame 

Presided over all with kindly grace. 



The Mother Love 



Oh, where may mother love it's equal find ? 
In cottage small or palace grand: 
Tis everywhere the same. 



II 



It riseth early with the morning clear, 
In anxious thought for 'little dear': 
It calleth each by name. 



Ill 



It willing lab'reth with untiring hand 
To satisfy each small demand 
Of every tender frame. 



228 Golden Winged Days 

IV 

The weary night doth find it busy still; 
Nor rest it knows till Sleep doth well 
The children all to claim. 



And even then, soft breathing in the air — 

The mother love is everywhere : v 

The Presence of the home. 

Twas here that Rosalind was born; 

And here she passed her happy youth. 

And from these walls a slender girl 

She sallied forth with aged chaperone 

To see the world, and visit places known to her 

From books, and people (who from grand-sire's tales 

She long had loved) of Anglo Saxon race — 

The stock in ages past, from which she sprang. 

Her visit now was o'er. 

And health restored she had returned home. 

A score of months had passed since that eventful eve 

When she in sweet retirement sat 

Within the boudoir of the castle old. 

And heard from lips of her young host 

His tale of tender love. 

Right loyally he sent by every post 
A message of devotion true: 
All full of faith and constancy 
And wild impatience, too , 



Golden Winged Days 229 

For leave to come and claim her as his bride. 

Her little secret she at first had kept. 

But, as the winter days came on, 

And blazing hearth drew sympathies more near, 

She sought her father's side; 

And then, with golden head laid low upon his knee. 

To list'ning ear the child beloved poured forth her heart. 



The Secret 



What is it like, my love, my love ? 
Tis like the roundelay 
Which little bird doth ever sing 
Throughout the live-long day. 



II 



It is the name 'bove every name 
(The dearest one to me) 
That o'er and o'er within my heart 
Doth ever chant of thee. 

Ill 

And so it haps I needs must find 
Some one to whom I may 
Confide the hidden love I feel 
Or perish in the way! 



230 Golden Winged Days 

'Twas freely passed 'mongst Rosalind's friends 

That soon the lovely girl would wed; 

Since the parental blessing which she sought 

Had never been withheld. 

" I choose to tell him all myself," she said, 

Referring to her sire, whose heart she owned; 

And so he could interpret well 

All she would say, before 'twas said. 

For like Cordelia and King Lear 

Were those, the parent and the child: 

One tender, fond, obedient. 

The other full of father love. 

Lord Dunloe thought this way of winning bride 

A most unusual one; but acquiesced — 

Since she whom he would wed was not an English maid 

But fairest flower from over sea, 

'La Belle American.' 

And so within the quiet of her home 
'Twas all arranged; and word was sent 
By cablegram for Roland now to come. 
The preparations for the feast 
Went on apace. A balmy day in June 
Was just the one for Rosalind 
And so the happy day was set. 



Part v 

The day dawned fair and beautiful. 
The waters of the little lake 
Had never looked so bright. 



1 



Golden Winged Days 231 

And all the foliage was out; 
And perfume sweet from every leaf and flower 
Filled with delicious scent the atmosphere. 
The fountains played all day in happy rhyme 
To heart of little girl, who tremblingly 
Awaited foot-fall of her coming love. 

For he had safely crossed the sea 
And found his way o'er continent 
And 'en so far as this her home. 
** Oh, whither shall I fly ? " in gay delight, 
She cried aloud when the great knocker fell. 
And she in surety now became aware 
There could from him be no escape. 
Impatient still he opened wide the door 
And entering he clasped her in his arms. 

My Rosalind," he said, and all the strain 
Of long and weary months broke in his voice. 



The Welcome Song 

I 

My lover comes, oh priceless gain 
That he to me restored is! 
To wait in vain, in grief and pain 
For him, to be deplored is 

II 

Arise, arise, we leave this spot 

For that in which the fountains play 



232 Golden Winged Days 

The world forgot, for have we not 
Each other found this happy day ? 



The Wedding 

The twilight hour came slowly on. 
And gathered there beneath the trees 
Were all the happy joyous guests. 
Not far beyond lay waters blue 
Of Minnetonka, fair, serene — 
Reflecting pure and cloudless sky 

While on the surface of the distant lake 
The merry white-caps rose and fell: 
(Remembrancers of yesterday. 
When wind-storm lashed the sea, 
And dashed the boats upon the shore) 
But now the sails were out again. 
And fairly dotted liquid blue 
With wide-spread wings of snowy white. 



A Summer Sail 



Lightly, lightly, o'er the waters. 

Now upon the crest 

Flitting, flying, sailing, swimming — 

Without pause or rest. 

Upward, downward, lifting, falling 

In the billow's nest. 



Golden Winged Days 233 

Rising, running, skipping, skimming — 
Joy of life the best! 



A lovely bower of alder blooms 

And slender ferns, grouped in a mass of green 

Formed nature's altar for the bridal pair. 

A stillness fell upon the scene. 

And slowly now from all the hills 

The violet shadows cast a mystic spell. 



Bridal Chorus 



Stilly o'er the distant hills 
Rose the moon at eventide. 
Birdling, nestling, sweetly trills 
To her mate o'er waters wide. 



II 



Setting sun, and evening star 
(Just above the golden light), 
Mingling with the moon-beams clear: 
Marriage sweet of day and night 



III 



Softly rippled by the breeze 
Break the waves upon the shore; 



234 Golden Winged Days 

Trailing neath the shadowy leaves 
Come the trooping maidens fair. 



IV 



Garlands in their arms they bring; 
Wreaths of alder, pure and white; 
Softly Lohengrin they sing. 
Coming slow through rosy light. 



And even as the maidens forward moved, 

The groom came forth from woody dell 

And sought his place within the bower: w jk 

The very picture of a youth in flower, 

So tall and straight and strong and good 

To see, as glancing round 

He strove to find his loved one's face. 

A look of pain flashed o'er his countenance, 

As nowhere could he see the one he loved; 

And 'twixt the anguish of his sense of loss 

And sorrow that he saw her not, 

He leaned hard on sturdy oak; 

And wondered if there aught could come 

At that last hour to part him from his bride. 

At last, at last, he sees her now! 

No need of sympathizing word 

From one who will officiate: 

The clergy have their place — 

But only to make one the lover and beloved. 



H 



Golden Winged Days 235 

Longing 



Like an angel comes she now, 
Or a spirit of delight; 
Clad in robes of purest white; 
Angel face and angel brow. 



II 



Hush, my heart! she draweth near, 
Slowly she descends the stair. 
No more sadness, no more care — 
Lo, she comes. The bride is here. 



And as she bent her steps to fairy bower 
All eyes were turned on girlish form 
To note if she would fail or fall — 
So earnest her desire to walk alone, 
And meet her lover where he stood. 

But Roland would not, could not wait. 

And with a face all lit with joy 

Pressed forward to her side; 

And kneeling, kissed impassionate her hand, 

And whispered " Love, forgive. 

As beauty is it's own excuse 

So love doth offer none. 

For thou art fair, beloved. 

And I — oh, what am I 

That thou should'st look on me .? " 



236 



Golden Winged Days 



And all forgetful of the place, 
Suffused with blushes Rosalind replied: 
** Thou art my knight, and I am glad 
To wear thy colors, love. 
For see, I cherish them and proudly here 
Will place them where they do belong — 
Upon my heart." 

And saying this she threw aside her cloak 
Of softest white; and lo the ribbons bright 
Which she had seen her Roland wear 
When in the chase he rode. 

The little by-play now was o'er. 

And all the guests were wondering 

What strange event could have occurred 

The wedding to impede. 

And scarce an answer yet had found 

When Roland gave his hand to Rosalind 

And gently led her to the priest. 



With closing of the solemn nuptial words, 

A chorus sweet of maiden voices rose. 

The brides-maids, flut'ring near, now gathered round 

And like the forms of some angelic host 

Assembled, and appeared to crown the bride. 

Then softly singing, forth they led; 

The bride and bride-groom slowly following. 

The wedding feast was scarcely o'er 
When mellow bells intoned the hour 
For swift departure of the pair: 
The boats were waiting by the shore. 



tt 



Golden Winged Days 237 

And e'er the guests knew when or how 

She disappeared. Sweet Rosalind had gone, 

And with her lover said farewell 

To Minnetonka evermore, 

And to the dear ones of her youth. 



The Old Home 



Farewell, beloved Forest Home, 
Thy dear old trees and winding path 
Thy fountain pure and blooming sward 
To thee I sing this aftermath. 



II 



Thou art the house where I was born 
Of adamantine early date. 
With windows of a hundered panes, 
And wide veranda facing gate. 



Ill 



Here grow the sweet wistaria vines 
Like curtain falling round the porch. 
Here honey-suckle, coral red, 
O'erTdoorway runneth forming arch. 



238 Golden Winged Days 

IV 

Within — ah, there my heart stands still! 
Where loved ones gathered round the hearth 
I ne'er may contemplate the scene — 
Within the home that gave me birth. 



But Love now calls. I brush the tears, 

And stifle back the rising sigh; 

" My love I come! Beloved one, 

Thine, thine through life Thine till I die " 



The snow-white sail slow vanished. 
Which bore the lover and the loved. 
And lonely hearts were left behind 
To mourn in vain the absent child. 
But bounding on the bosom of the deep 
Floats craft that beareth Rosalind. 
As Dunloe's bride she happily 
Hath sailed away to find a home 
Among new friends, impatiently' 
Who wait to welcome as their own, 
(To England — dear old Mother-land' 
*Xa Belle American." 



II 



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